


Immediately, I Love Him (He's Doing His Best)

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Based on Joey's DND character, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Crack Treated Way Too Seriously, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know how we ended up here, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, No beta we die like jaskier's heart on the mountain, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Was meant to be a short one shot, so much goddamn fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: "In which Greg is some sort of guardian angel, I don't know"<><>A few days ago, Joey Batey did an interview in which he created a lovely little character named Greg. A few days ago, I decided to write a cute little thing about Greg and Jaskier being the best of friends throughout the years, with a dash of Geralt and Jaskier friendship as a treat.13k words later, here we are. Enjoy.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 89
Kudos: 289
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I checked the word count while writing this thing, I hated myself a little more. Never mind the fact that I wrote more words for this than I have any other wip on my account. Oh, no, the killer is the fact that I wrote it all because of a horse-demon.
> 
> (An adorable horse-demon, to be entirely fair. Check him out [here](https://twitter.com/NXOnNetflix/status/1258079076083875841) if you haven't yet)
> 
> Anyway, this is ridiculous and I can't believe it's something I actually spent so much time on. Give it a read and let me know what you think! Thanks!

The first time he meets Greg, his name isn’t Greg. And, to be fair,  _ his  _ name isn’t Jaskier.

It’s raining that night, splashing like puddles against his window, and, really, it’s the kind of night where it’s easier to sneak outside than it should be. No one thinks twice of pattering steps against cold hallway floors when there’s thunder outside and the rough shaking of wind against the building’s stone walls. Julian keeps a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he slips through shadows and familiar passageways only servants should know, his breath the only thing warm about him as he nears the outside.

He supposes he can’t really blame it all on the weather, though. The lute he’s smuggled into the blanket with him has grown rather cool from the time spent hiding under his bed. Now, snuggled against his chest as he finally takes a step into the night air, the lute slowly warms itself by leeching heat from his body.

No matter. It’s a fair trade when it comes down to it.

Outside, the rain is sharper. Outside, the wind is louder.

Julian sits with his back to the wall, safe beneath a small outstretching of roof above him, and pulls the lute free.

It’s easy to sneak out when it rains, and it’s easy to play his songs without getting caught.

He starts with mere chords and notes, things he’s picked up from watching tonight’s bard play at the banquet. The man’s hands had moved a bit too quickly for Julian to fully recognize what he was doing but he does his best to replicate it, stretching his hands into uncomfortable positions to get the sound just right. 

Some nights, it comes easily. He can sit out here and make up songs like the universe itself is placing words and melodies into his head. He can mix his music with the sound of gusting winds and rushing rains, hurl his own thunder back into the lightning-struck sky, and smile because he knows music is in his veins more than his family’s blood. Some nights, he plays and he cries at his own playing, reassured that he’s not crazy when he says music was made for him.

But other nights— other nights, it’s harder. Other nights, like tonight, his hands grow sore from just a few seconds, the cold seeping into his bones and holding his muscles captive in their stillness. His voice shakes, shuddering in the wind before losing itself in the sound. Other nights, like tonight, he can’t play through one song without finding something he hates.

Some nights, he tries to play and he cries at his own trying, his family’s voices in his head telling him he’s making all this passion up— just to feel special, just to feel different, just to spite them all.

The wind shifts in the middle of a well-known tune, drowning Julian in water and mud. He cuts off his soft singing, dirt sticking to his tongue. He tosses the lute aside.

_ “So long as you’re under my roof, you won’t play a damned note of that thing _ ,” his father had yelled. Julian wonders if it was a curse, if he truly won’t be able to play so long as he’s named Julian.

It’s been a long week— a week of lessons he doesn’t care for, a week of family who sneer at him and scoff. He’s barely gotten sleep, tossing and turning and sick to his stomach at the thought of the banquet he’d somehow survived tonight. And, gods, what a night. A night of his parents pretending he’s something he’s not, introducing him as a well-studied boy, a man ready to take on his roles.

A man ready to be wed to some girl he’s never met; a man who, as his father had said with a stern look his way, understands his position in life.

And how the others had gushed and believed it. How the others had said they were so proud. 

Through it all, Julian watched the bard and wondered when that could be him.

“Just send me  _ something _ ,” he says to his knees before dragging his eyes up to the sky, pretending the water droplets falling from the night are stars instead of something wet and cold. “Something to make this better. Because I’m so tired of feeling so alone.”

He’s not expecting a response but, somehow, the wind seems to warm. Somehow, the rain seems to slow. 

Julian sighs and stands, reaching for his lute. If the rain’s going to stop, he needs to go back inside before he loses it as his cover. 

It’s not until he’s standing— not until lightning flashes one last time— that he finally turns and sees it.

“Fuck!” Julian jumps back, nearly dropping his lute as he stumbles into the wall, his shoulder smarting from where it’s slammed against it. “Fuck, gods, what are— how— who—”

The creature stares back and then, slowly, blinks all thirteen of its eyes at once.

They’re different shades of red, each of its eyes, and Julian finds himself drawn to the largest one. It’s oddly shaped, not quite a circle, and rolls around a few times before fully focusing on Julian again. But, when it does focus, it’s not with the malevolence that a creature like this— a creature the size of his favorite horse, a creature with six arms and unsteady legs— should have. It’s… gentler than that. It’s softer.

“Hello,” Julian says after a moment has passed and he’s not been eaten. The rain’s still slow and the wind has died down but, suddenly, going inside isn’t his main concern anymore. “I, uh, I suppose I don’t know if you can talk or, well, even understand me, but I’d feel rude just standing here. I’m, ah, I’m Julian. Or, you can just call me Julian, I’m sure you don’t want to hear the full name, though most people typically do and—” He cuts himself off, taking a breath. “Anyway, is there anything I can call you?”

Silence. More rain, soft thunder.

Julian’s cheeks warm.

“Right, well, of course,” he says. “You may not speak and it’s just plain impolite of me to assume so—”

This time, it’s the creature that interrupts. It does so with something like a growling noise, something like the thunder Julian heard before it arrived. It’s a strangled sound but Julian still leans in, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to make sense of it.

“Graahhhh,” he mimics dramatically. “Grog. Grag. Grea….g… Greg! Oh, lovely. A pleasure to meet you, Greg, really.”

He’s certain he’s wrong about whatever this thing was trying to say, but it doesn’t correct him and it doesn’t seem upset so Julian nods to himself and goes with it.

“Anyway, was there a reason you showed up all… frightening-like?” He asks, gesturing towards Greg. “Not that you’re frightening anymore— you’ve actually got some rather charming eyes once you get used to all of them— but I’ve not much time and—”

Greg takes a step forward, head dipping ever so slightly. Julian stops talking, a small frown fixing on his face.

“Are you bowing?” He asks. “Am I your god now?”

If creatures can look desperately annoyed, this one does, flicking its tail and stomping at the ground. Julian sighs and smiles.

“Right,” he says. “Sorry. Carry on.”

Permission granted, half of Greg’s eyes look further down— look at Julian’s lute.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Julian to catch on.

“Oh, oh!” He says, holding the instrument up. “You heard me, was that it? Well, my apologies, it’s far from my greatest work. I’m having a rather off night, you see, but if you come back later I’m sure I can give you an evening to remember. Have you heard the one about the fishmonger’s daughter? Or the one about the countess’s hairbrush? How does it go again? Let me see…”

Julian trails off, strumming a few strings as he mutters the lyrics to himself, trying to remember just how the older bard had done it hours before.

The first notes have barely faded through the air before Greg’s kicking onto his hind legs, letting out a sound that could be a whinny if not for the gravely undertones. 

“Oh, you like that, do you?” Julian asks, his smile growing into a familiar self-satisfied smirk. “Well, you just wait, I’ve got much more where that came from.”

It’s strange how the notes and words come easily to him now that he’s not searching quite so hard for them. Without the rain and wind, his voice feels bare against the late-night sky, all of nature leaning in as he sings silly words and stupid songs, dancing around this strange creature just to make it kick its legs and wave its many arms as if joining in the fun.

“Perhaps I’ll write a song about you,” Julian says, still playing some happy tune as he skips around in a circle, Greg turning clumsily to watch him. The eyes are still a bit unnerving but even Julian can recognize the excited light in them. “Greg the incredible. The magical. The… well, we’ll find a word for you, yet.”

Of course, Julian recognizes the madness in all of this. Despite all the teasing and insults, he does pay attention in his lessons and no class has ever made mention of a creature like this. It seems more like something pulled from a child’s mind, something half-formed and yet overdone. And it seems just as young, each sound from its throat mimicking Julian’s own laughter. 

He may be crazy and playing with an imaginary friend. He may be absolutely mad and finally giving in to his fantasies but, tonight, Julian doesn’t mind. He plays until the sun peeks over the edges of the world, until his fingers are angry with him and his throat’s dry enough to crack. He plays until he’s exhausted and aching and filled to the brim with more fun than he’s ever had.

As light peeks over at them, Julian pauses his playing. He looks at Greg with a breathless laugh.

“Thank you,” he says. “I needed that.”

Greg tilts his head— for Julian had rather insulted him when he kept calling him _it_ , Greg stomping angrily until Julian called him  _ him _ — and watches as Julian tucks his lute under his arm again.

“I’ve got to go in now but I hope I can see you more than just this once,” he says, tossing his blanket, forgotten on the ground, to Greg. Greg fumbles to catch it, too many hands trying at once, but then holds it to his chest once steady. “I won’t stay here long so… find me. It’s good to have a friend.”

It’s hard to shake hands with a creature that has so many but, eventually, they manage. And, Julian swears, he sees Greg’s promise to return caught in the light of his many eyes.

When they part, Julian knows it’s not for the last time.

* * *

They meet a few times after that, times when it’s raining and times when it’s not— times when Julian’s hiding in his family’s garden as day turns to night and he’s looking for familiar eyes in the distance.

He’s still not certain whether this is madness or hallucination but he refuses to question it, especially as the year goes on and he realizes just how much he hates the life his parents are writing for him.

When he leaves one cool winter night, it’s with nothing but his lute on his back and a bag of clothes and coin in his hands. There’s no rain to cover the sound of his creaking through the halls this time, no wind to hide his huffing breaths as he all but runs to the nearest door, chest aching and heart hammering as he thinks of nothing but getting away. Away from snide remarks on his chosen hobbies, away from arranged marriages and jobs he doesn’t care for. Away from this place that calls him by a name he can’t make fit, away from the sourness of all his sorrows.

When he runs into the cold, he doesn’t stop.

It’s late, and the city around his home has fallen asleep long ago. No one bothers to peer out their windows at the strange noble boy escaping under the gaze of watchful stars, under the knowing look of a moon so bright it may as well be a sun. He runs with no idea of where he’s going or how he’ll get there, his lute banging against his back with each stolen step away from the place he’s meant to call his home.

The edge of the town— the place where the path becomes a road, where distant becomes further— brings him to a stumbling stop as he trips over dirt that’s far less smooth than the streets of the town. His bag pulls from his hands as he catches himself before he can tear his face on the rocks and mud, scratches cutting deep into his palms as he cries out. 

“Fuck!” He snaps, scrambling to his knees and ignoring the way his fine clothes cut and tear. “Fucking hell, I—”

A hand appears before him, lifting his bag with a careful touch. Another extends, reaching for him and helping him back to his feet.

Greg watches him, all eyes narrowed and confused.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my friend,” Julian says, brushing his hands off on his trousers. “I’d love to stay and chat but, you see, it’s not long before they notice I’ve gone. There will be no chance to get away once my father’s sounded the alarm.”

There’s no telling how much Greg understands. Often, Julian will prattle on about anything and everything, regardless of his audience’s comprehension of his fancy words and dramatic tales. Tonight, though, he’s no time to pretend Greg’s nodding along like any person would. Julian sticks his hand out, reaching for his bag.

“Come on, then, give it back,” he says, nodding towards it. 

Greg pulls the bag tighter to himself and Julian swears he shakes his head.

“Oh, now is far from the time to play around,” Julian snaps, trying to keep his voice low. “I need to be far from here by the time morning comes, alright? And I can’t very well do that if you’re holding my only belongings hostage. Well, aside from my lute, but we both know  _ that  _ isn’t going to be worth much if I can’t pay for food or a place to stay, now, will it? And, really, this is just childish, you must— Oh.”

As Julian complains, Greg slowly turns, something Julian hadn’t noticed until Greg’s knelt just enough for him to see the blanket folded and tossed over his back— enough for Julian to pause and step forward, resting his hand upon it.

“I suppose four legs will move quicker than two,” he says softly, the warmth of Greg’s body beneath his touch comforting nerves he didn’t realize were so frayed. Greg looks back at him, eyes wide. Julian looks back, not daring to give in to the soothing blossom of hope and love expanding in his chest— if he does, he’s sure he’ll do something silly like cry. Still, he smiles. “Will you help me get away?”

This time, he’s certain Greg's eyes are saying yes.

Tossing himself onto Greg’s back is something strange but, Julian notes, not as strange as it probably should be. He wraps his arms around his neck, careful not to hold too tight, though he does yelp a bit as Greg stands, shifting around until they’re both satisfied with Julian’s grip.

“Alright,” Julian says, laughing shakily. “Let’s go wherever. Anywhere but here.”

Greg returns a happy noise and then kicks at the ground, facing back towards the road before he begins to run. 

It’s terrifying, faster than any horse Julian’s ever ridden, and he can feel the power of Greg’s body as he pounds away at the earth, creating a storm of dust and wind as he carries them further and further from the town with each step. Julian’s tempted to shut his eyes but, somehow, the way the stars become streaks of light from the speed is too beautiful to turn away from.

As the city becomes nothing but a distant spot in the back of his vision, Julian finally gives in and tosses his head back, laughing loudly. Laughing without fear of being heard.

“We’ll conquer the world, Greg!” He cries, petting his friend’s neck. “It’s all ours, I can feel it.”

Greg simply runs on, but there’s something brighter in the way he does so, something that promises an adventure greater than Julian’s ever known.

And Julian holds on, smiling into the night as his only friend in the world takes him away from the only life they’d known, a life of hidden songs and music left hidden in the night.

The sound of wind whistling past them is the greatest melody Julian’s ever heard.

* * *

For the better part of the night and the following day, they travel with only Julian’s voice to keep him company. Somehow, Greg knows roads with no travelers, no eyes or spies to carry word of their appearance back to his family. They stick to the streets that weave in and out of fields and woods, stretches of dirt so unused they barely seem to be a path at all. 

Through it all, Julian tells tales and stories, at one point pulling his lute across his chest to make up a song about the bard and his horse of a best friend.

“Once I find the perfect rhyme for thirteen eyes, you’ll have maidens and nobles begging to know you,” he promises, still strumming in the background. Now that he can play without fear of punishment, he doesn’t seem to know how to stop. “Every tongue on the Continent will know the stories of Greg the horse, and Julian the ex-noble.”

Greg, whose pace had slowed to a casual walk as night became late morning, turns his head ever so slightly, one of his smaller eyes fixing on Julian.

Julian’s cheeks heat and go a funny shade of red.

“Ah, well,” he says. “It’ll be a better title once I find a better name for myself. Besides, you're right. I can’t go around letting everyone know I’m meant to be viscount, now, can I?” 

Greg turns his head back to the front, shaking a bit as if in laughter. If it weren’t for the size of his many arms, Julian would swat him for the clear teasing tone in the noise he makes, something between a neigh and a chuckle. 

Instead, he leans forward and points, nearly falling off as he does so. As it is, it’s a few of Greg’s arms that keep him from fully plummeting to the ground.

“Oh, oh, Greg, look, a  _ garden _ ,” he says, waving his hands through the air as he gestures. “Twice the size of the one back home. I didn’t know that was possible. Oh, we must go look at the flowers, we must! We’ve been traveling for hours and I need a break and I can’t think of anything better than taking a well-deserved nap in an oversized garden.”

He’s sure Greg’s sigh is meant to be a protest but Julian’s already tossing himself off his back, relying on Greg’s help to steady him as he gets to his feet. Without a thought, he takes one of Greg’s hands and starts leading him towards the flowers.

It’s more a valley than it is a garden, the boundaries of it uncertain and with no gardener in sight. It’s clear there had been some owner at some point, the rows too precise to be accidental, but nature has taken over and added hundreds more of her children in the form of brilliant blossoms that reach anywhere from Julian’s ankles to his shoulders, tickling his skin as he walks by.

“Isn’t this just lovely, Greg?” He asks, spinning amidst a collection of dandelions. “Couldn’t you just spend forever here?”

Greg lowers into a seated position, watching the plants with a suspicious gaze. He reaches out, plucking at the petals of a rather oversized rose, pulling it closer to his eyes as if to inspect it.

That same fondness Julian felt with his family’s dogs and kittens swells in his chest, bigger and richer than ever before, growing as he laughs at the sight. It’s a laugh that pulls straight from the bottom of his lungs, deep and overwhelmed, louder than he’s ever had any right to be.

“I’ll teach you to love flowers,” he says, tucking a particularly pretty dandelion behind his ear as he plops down at Greg’s side. “Just wait and see.”

There’s no way to tell how much time they spend as they wander through the valley, pausing every few steps so Julian can spout some fact about whichever plant they’ve stumbled across now. Commenting on the scent or color, or sharing some odd memory related to it, he has something to say about nearly every flower. And Greg follows, nodding and listening and filling his hands with a sample from each. By the time the sun’s reached the center of the sky and Julian’s legs ache from the aimless meandering, Greg has the most colorful bouquet in each of his hands.

It’s later, as they’re sitting amongst the buttercups, that Julian finally feels he’s truly escaped from home.

“Jaskier,” he says, tying the yellow flowers into Greg’s luscious red-brown mane. “I think I’d like to be called Jaskier.”

Greg begins to nod but freezes at the last second, eyes glancing back as if to see if any of the flowers had fallen from his hair from the slight action. 

Jul—  _ Jaskier  _ laughs, rearranging the ones that had come loose.

“Don’t worry about losing these,” he says. “With me around, you'll always have a flower.”

Greg’s mouth, hidden near his chin and the last thing anyone would notice with all those eyes taking up most of the space on his head, twitches into a small smile. 

One of his arms extends, handing Jaskier another buttercup.

Jaskier takes it and tucks into his doublet.

“For good luck, and to us,” he says, returning Greg’s smile. "Let us never part for long."

Greg nods in agreement, reaching to stroke his own flowers.

For good luck and for friendship. A promise made in the shape of gentle flower petals.

* * *

They part sooner than Jaskier would like, Greg stopping at the edge of some small town and refusing to go any further. Jaskier had done his best to urge his friend forward but, well, there’s only so much one can do against a creature like Greg.

“Alright, alright,” he says, grumbling to himself as he gets off Greg’s back. “Don’t know how we’re meant to have any adventures if you’re terrified of anyone that isn’t me but, well, I don’t blame you. And I am just selfish enough to want to keep you all to myself so this does work out in your favor, doesn’t it?”

Greg doesn’t respond, simply passing Jaskier his bag with his eyes all big and wide once more.

It’s quite difficult to remain upset with him when he looks like that.

“Aw, you big softie,” Jasker says, reaching to stroke at the place that would be behind Greg’s ears if he had anything other than some rather dubious looking holes on the sides of his head. “I don’t quite know where I’ll be off to after this— I certainly can’t stay in one place forever if I want to make my name known— but I still expect you to find me.” He pauses, his smile slipping ever so slightly. “You will, won’t you? Find me?”

Greg tosses his head, making that laughing noise again as if mocking Jaskier for ever thinking otherwise.

“Oh, alright, then,” Jaskier says, pulling his hand away with a childish smile. He slings his bag back over his shoulder, his hand now free to reach into his doublet and pull out the buttercup they’d collected earlier. Greg does the equivalent, freeing one of the few flowers left from his mane. “A token of our friendship and our promise to always think of the other.”

It’s rather silly, but Jaskier’s smile is big enough to split his face when they tap their flowers together like drinks at a tavern, a small giggle escaping his lips as they do so.

“Very well, then,” he says, carefully putting his flower away. Greg has a bit more difficulty, trying to balance the flower on his head before huffing and simply passing it back to Jaskier to tie it into his mane. There’s no promise it will stay— not with how quickly Greg moves— but he still takes care in finding the perfect spot. “Until next time, old friend.”

And Jaskier turns, walking into a new town with a new name, a buttercup hidden in the space above his heart.

He doesn’t look back to check but, he swears, Greg watches him until he’s out of sight.

* * *

They don’t meet for a while after that, months passing with the ease of a mere moment. Somehow, though he misses him, it doesn’t ache as much as he’d originally feared. The buttercup they’d found together keeps a permanent place near his heart, reminding him of their promise to find each other again.

Greg’s not the type to break promises.

So, Jaskier goes on his own adventures, traveling from town to town with a new song on his lips each time he steps into a building. He makes enough coin from his performances to live without fear of starvation or the cold, but something in him still aches with a hollow thud— something that had only been fully glad when he’d been on Greg’s back, riding towards what he knew was destiny.

He tries to fill the time with songs about other strange creatures, beings he’s only read of in old books at the backs of whatever libraries will let him steal the silence to write. Things like flying drakes or hags with odd potions— things that make far more sense than Greg does, despite their supposed rarities.

It’s a year after leaving Greg that Jaskier’s performing one of these songs. It’s then that he meets a witcher.

He’s drawn to him with the same lightning-strike shock he’d felt when seeing Greg for the first time, something that’s almost fear— a fear that’s instantly drowned out by curiosity and endearment. The witcher sits in the back of the tavern, brooding but not calling out any cruelties about Jaskier’s song. They exchange a few words; the witcher stands and drops a coin on the table before leaving.

Jaskier follows. 

It’s not long before that last part becomes a habit.

Geralt fills that space only Greg had known before, letting him ramble on about useless things as they travel down abandoned roads. Geralt, admittedly, offers a bit more adventure, what with his profession and overall personality, and Jaskier’s drawn to it like thunder to a storm.

Geralt often looks at him like he’s mad, like he’s not quite certain he and Jaskier are seeing the same things. It happens most often after a rather nasty hunt, Jaskier waxing poetic about Geralt’s fight as they settle down for the night, a wistfulness in Jaskier’s tone that Geralt turns his nose up at.

They only ever talk about it once, after only a month or so of traveling together.

Geralt looks at Jaskier from across the fire they’d made, guts from some poor creature still sticking in his hair. It’d been the nastiest fight Jaskier’s seen yet, a group of bandits playing no small part as they’d tried to close in on the two of them as the battle neared its end. A flash of steel and the sound of fists against soft flesh— Geralt had taken the group out before Jaskier fully recognized the danger.

Slowly, as the fire grows between them and Jaskier holds his hands out to the flames, Geralt picks at the dried blood on his knuckles, still stained from one of the bandits’ noses. 

“Those men were sent by the villagers,” Geralt says slowly, certainly. “They were meant to keep me from returning for payment.”

“And that’s downright rotten of them,” Jaskier says with a stern nod. “If you hadn’t dragged us out of that vile place so quickly, I’d have given them all a piece of my mind. Don’t you worry, I won’t forget this. I’ll make sure to remind you about their horrid behavior should they ever come to us for help ever again. And that's not even mentioning the song I'll be writing. Trust me, no one will want to set foot in this sorry place lest they are branded outcasts, too, out of the mere association.”

“That’s not what I—” Geralt cuts off, his head falling ever so slightly to the side. He only has two eyes but they watch with just as much intensity as Greg ever did— perhaps more. “People don’t like witchers. They think us dangerous, and they’re right.”

Jaskier scoffs, leaning back with a huff.

“Oh, Geralt,” he says, reaching thoughtlessly to stroke the soft yellow petals of some flower still caught in his clothes, “I’ve befriended creatures far more terrifying than you’ll ever be.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t ask any more questions.

The next morning, he waits for Jaskier to wake before leaving, and the two travel side by side down an empty road.

* * *

Greg’s visits are few and far between— just chance happenings whenever Jaskier is away from Geralt, wandering down an old road in hopes of new adventures— but they’re cherished things, always lasting for a few weeks before parting once more.

He finds Greg, once, drinking from a cool blue stream, hands cupped in the water to bring to his mouth as his other limbs swat away buzzing flies and other pests. Jaskier waits behind a tree, watching, before jumping out with a loud shout.

Greg starts, kicking out with a high-pitched sound, before turning to glare at Jaskier’s red-faced laughter.

“I didn’t know you could be afraid,” Jaskier says, holding his sides as he giggles. “I expected a small irritation, at best, but to see you actually startle like that? Gods, Greg, all your eyes seemed about to pop out!”

Greg huffs and tosses the rest of his water in Jaskier’s face. 

Jaskier simply keeps on laughing, leaning into Greg’s neck when he finally comes over for a long-overdue hug.

“Let’s find a place to camp for the night,” he says, running his hand through Greg’s mane. The buttercup hadn’t stayed and, instead, one of Greg’s hands keep permanently closed over the flower as he travels. Jaskier’s promised to find a better solution to this, though Greg’s insistence on holding onto the thing has proven he doesn’t quite mind. “I’ve got loads of stories to tell you.”

Typically, Jaskier’s stories tend to be dramatized versions of his latest escapades, smiling devilishly about the spouses calling for his head and the horrid names he’s been called as he’s run out of town. Other times, he leans back against the trees and sings his songs, trying out new rhymes and rhythms as Greg sits beside him with watchful eyes. He’s a tougher critic than he was back in the day, no longer pleased with simple tunes. More often than not, Jaskier has dirt kicked at him for a sour note, or a large head nudging at his arm for weak metaphors and descriptions. As annoyed as he pretends to be at these moments— “remember which one of us is the famous bard, you terrible oaf”— they’ve only served to make his songs stronger.

As time goes on, more and more of these songs surround stories about the great Geralt of Rivia. 

He’s not certain if Greg knows exactly what he means when he speaks of the White Wolf, but he prattles on regardless, always with a new tale— always with a new fact to share. Greg listens carefully, adding the right noises at the right spots, though there’s something harder in his eyes whenever Jaskier speaks too fondly of the witcher. 

Not, as the years go by, that that’s as often as it once was.

“He’s the reason for this tear in my shirt, you know,” Jaskier says one night, leaning against Greg’s side as they watch the stars together. He’d left Geralt just a few days before, storming off after a rather ridiculous argument about whether or not they should follow the same trail as some certain violet-eyed witch. He sighs, poking a finger through the hole on his sleeve. “Pulled me right off the road at the mere mention of nekkers. There weren’t any, mind you, but I was tugged into a tree branch all the same.”

Greg huffs, shaking his head. Jaskier entirely agrees.

“The great bully wouldn’t even let me stop to mend it! And, of course, the shops at the town didn’t carry the same colored thread so here we are.” He sighs. “Oh, well. Oh! But I did buy something for you, though. Just a moment.”

He perks up, reaching for his bag. It’s larger than the one he left home with all those years ago, made of thicker stuff with pockets and a sturdy strap. He digs around inside it, shoving away his music books and dozens of pens in order to reveal the dark cap buried beneath. It’s made of good fabric and fur, soft to the touch, and wide enough to fit at the very top of Greg’s head without falling off.

“Here,” he says, standing back by Greg’s side. He holds it in front of him, grinning when Greg takes it from him, flipping it over in his hands and bringing it closer to his face with narrowed eyes. “It’s for your head, silly. Not only will it look rather classy, but it’s also got this nifty strap that’s just right for your flower.”

As he speaks, Greg lets him place the cap against his head, tugging it on with all the practice of a man well-versed in the world of fashion and style. It’s a bit tight around the edges but Greg seems focused on more important things, his glimmering eyes wide as he slowly opens a hand to reveal the same golden flower from the field they’d stumbled upon back when they were young and had the time to enjoy such things, the freedom and air in their chests to lay back in a valley of wishes and dreams left unseen. It glows the same way it did then, as brilliant as the sun— so bright, in fact, Jaskier nearly fears he’ll burn himself on its stem.

It is warm, but that’s probably due more to Greg’s insistent hold on it than anything else.

Tying it into the strap around the hat is simple work, Jaskier working it like the strings of a lute and biting his tongue in slight concentration as he wraps the stem once more around the strap. His knuckles brush the petals every so often and it’s like a touch of magic each time, sticking to his skin with all the certainty of the promise they made back then. For good luck, to find each other— to always have one another, no matter what.

“There,” he says, patting Greg’s head once everything’s in place. “What a handsome boy you are.”

He never did quite find out if Greg can smile but he’s learned to feel his happiness in the way his eyes squint, the way Greg always bumps his head into Jaskier’s hand as if searching for a scratch or pet.

Jaskier gives in, stroking that spot behind his ears the way he always does.

“I’ve missed this,” he says. “Just us, talking and traveling and not worrying about anything other than whether the grass beneath us will itch in the morning. Things have been busy with Geralt and I’m sorry about that. I… I keep meaning to introduce you two somehow but it never works out. And, I suppose, part of me still wants to keep this to myself.” He wraps another arm around Greg’s neck, half-embracing him and half simply holding on. “I’ve given so much of my life to being the witcher’s bard. It’s nice to have something just for me.”

Greg leans towards him, his giant head resting on Jaskier’s shoulders. He’s warm— he always has been.

Jaskier shuts his eyes and leans in, too.

“You’ve been good to me, friend,” he whispers. “Better than anyone else.”

* * *

It’s unfair, at first, to pretend Greg’s the only friend he has. Jaskier knows there are innkeepers around the Continent who know his name fondly, and other travelers, still, who he’s shared drinks with for many nights in a row. While the jokes about his infamy as a scoundrel and a flirt have spread more easily than he’d like, he can still count on finding a kind smile and a warm room in practically any town he stops in.

Then, of course, there’s Geralt.

Geralt, who checks on him after each hunt and contract— something he won’t admit to but something Jaskier knows by the brief pause after the fight is done, the way his nose twitches in a subtle check for blood. 

Geralt, who buys the food and drink Jaskier likes best when they’re lucky enough to stop at one of the nicer inns, no matter how Jaskier promises his playing would be more than enough to cover them for a night. Geralt always shrugs when Jaskier pulls out his own coin purse, making some snide remark about Jaskier’s playing not being as good as all that. Still, he’s never quite able to meet his eye as he says this, and Jaskier’s certain there’s something more light-hearted in those words.

Geralt, who waits for Jaskier to wake in the mornings before they leave. Geralt, who knows the names and words of his songs, no matter how he complains about their content and tunes. Geralt, who trusts Jaskier to stitch together his wounds and help him bathe; Geralt, who’s done the same for him.

Slowly, Geralt becomes one of the greatest friends Jaskier’s ever had. He sees him more than he sees Greg, and having a muse who can answer his questions with words— however few they may be— is more help than he’d realized. 

“Are you going to admit we’re friends, yet?” Jaskier asks one day as Geralt’s wiping blood from a slash across Jaskier's shoulder after some trouble with a group of drowners. “Or are you this gentle with everyone you patch up?”

Geralt grunts, placing the cloth away and replacing it with a salve and bandages. “Only the ones stupid enough to go at a drowner with a fucking  _ lute _ . What did you think would happen?”

“I thought I would distract it long enough for you to take care of the others and be safe from an attack from behind,” Jaskier says. “You’re welcome.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier grins. 

Of course, then, the bandages are wrapped tight around the wound and Geralt’s turning away.

“There are rumors of a bruxa near the next town,” he says, the fond teasing traded out for his typical gruffness. “You should stay here or go somewhere else. If I can’t trust you to keep safe around a group of half-starved drowners, then there’s no way I can bring you anywhere near a vampire.”

“Geralt, you wound me more than any creature ever could,” Jaskier says, an eyebrow raised and his tone dry. “But, well, if you insist. There are other friends I can spend the rest of my time with, I suppose.”

“You have other friends?” It’s a joke and Jaskier willingly dives right into it.

“ _ Other _ friends?” He repeats. “Implying that you accept we’re friends now? You should have told me we’d be having this announcement tonight. I would have brought a cake.”

“You don’t even like cake,” Geralt says.

Jaskier shakes his head. “I didn’t like the cake you picked out. I’ll choose next time. A good normal cake.”

Geralt huffs another breath. It could almost be a laugh.

“Go to bed, you idiot,” he says, “before I start assuming infection has driven you mad and I’m left with no choice but to put you out of everyone’s misery.”

Jaskier grins, warmth growing in his chest. The same warmth he felt when Greg first danced to his songs, when he rode away from a pitiful life on the back of a creature only he seems to know. The same warmth that radiates permanently from the flower still tucked into his shirt.

“You’re a good friend, Geralt,” he says, reveling in the small start Geralt gives— as if Jaskier’s not said the words ten thousand times before. “I hope you know that, truly.”

He doesn’t know if Geralt’s lack of response is irritation or embarrassment but it’s enough for Jaskier to catch Geralt’s eye as they both prepare for bed, the smallest squint of smiles stuck within them.

Jaskier sleeps and dreams of the best friends he’s ever had.

* * *

Geralt is a good friend. He takes care of Jaskier in little ways, and he lets Jaskier take care of him. He shakes his head at his jokes and he lets him tag along on countless adventures.

But Greg’s a good friend, too. He appears in the moments when Jaskier’s most alone, and he never leaves his side until he’s certain there’s someone waiting for Jaskier in another town or another inn. He wears a silly hat with a silly yellow flower and he’s always nudging at Jaskier’s shoulders until Jaskier proves he has his flower, still, too.

Geralt’s a good friend. Greg’s a good friend.

It’s on a hot and sticky walk that Jaskier realizes he can’t ever let the two meet.

“But I just don’t understand why we’re hunting this thing down if you don’t actually know what it is.” Jaskier’s heart hurts in his chest, pounding with more weight than he’s ever felt before. More than when he ran from home, more than when he first played in front of a crowd, more than every fear in his life combined. “That woman looked half-mad, anyway, and she didn’t even talk to  _ you _ . She’s just another brainless believer that witchers are all bad and I don’t think we should give that any attention, really, so why don’t we turn right back around and—”

“I told you to stay at the inn if you were afraid,” Geralt says, his tone betraying nothing about his thoughts. 

Jaskier splutters, his hands flying through the air. “I… I am  _ not  _ afraid, Geralt, how  _ dare  _ you? Have I ever been afraid of a little hunt?  _ No.  _ No, I have not, and you know that, and—”

“You talk even more when you’re scared,” Geralt says, looking down from his spot on Roach. “And, anyway, I heard your heart when she was describing the creature. I thought you might pass out.”

“I’m no fair maiden falling all over the place,” Jaskier huffs, though he does try to take deeper breaths to keep his heart from betraying him in such a manner. If he faints, he’ll never hear the end of it. “I’m just  _ saying  _ that we don’t know what this  _ is _ . It could be a trap.”

“We’ve faced many creatures you’ve not heard of before,” Geralt says.

“But never one you’ve never seen.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “She described it poorly, that’s all.”

Poorly— as if that’s the word for it. The way she’d said it was like a spider emerging from the dark, limbs suddenly surrounding the air and sky as it heaved itself away from the shadows, eyes blinking at her as if it saw through her very soul and to the darkest thoughts beneath. She’d shook as she said this, fidgeting with her skirt with her eyes downcast, whispering fervently about the demon haunting the caves outside of town. 

_ “It moved quicker than anything I’ve ever seen,”  _ she’d said, trembling with each word.  _ “I can only assume a miracle is what’s allowed me to live and tell the tale _ . _ ” _

“You do have an idea, then, of what it is?” Jaskier asks, shoving his thoughts to the side. 

Geralt grants another small hum, filling the air with the sound as he thinks.

“A kikimora, based on her words,” he says. “Or an arachnomorph, based on location.”

“And you know how to fight those?”

“Yes.”

“And you plan on killing it?”

“Yes.”

“And… Well, what if it’s not either, at all?”

“Yes, Jaskier,” he says. “I’ll still be able to kill it.”

It’s not the question Jaskier was asking, and it’s certainly not the answer he wanted.

“Okay, okay, but,” he says, running up ahead so he can turn and face Geralt, walking backward with little thought of how the bumpy path may cause him to fall. “Consider this— it may be peaceful. She said nothing about it killing anyone— only livestock and stray animals. We may be hunting down some poor starving creature. And for what? A town that clearly doesn’t respect you as it should?”

“As I said,” Geralt says, “you may return to the inn if you’re afraid.”

“I’m not fucking afraid,” Jaskier snaps. It’s not often that heat slips into his words when speaking with Geralt but, when it does, it’s one of the few times Geralt seems to listen. Roach pauses after a small tug on her reins, Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed as he stares down at Jaskier. “I’m just saying that not every strange creature is a monster, damnit. And I won’t have you rushing in here without at least wondering about what you’ll do if this thing is nonviolent or good or kind. Gods, Geralt, would it hurt you to listen to me? To actually hear what I say rather than what your witchery assumptions are telling you? I won’t stand by and let you kill something innocent. I refuse.”

Silence is cruel and cold despite the heat of the day. Geralt stares, his gaze steady.

“If it truly is peaceful, I will stand down,” Geralt says, slowly. His words are little weights on Jaskier’s shoulders, pinning him in place with their soft condescension. “But if it’s a danger I will do my job.”

And Geralt shifts the reins once more. Roach moves past Jaskier with little more than a glare rivaling her rider’s.

Jaskier stands in place, his breaths heavy as they drag in and out of his throat.

Greg is good. Greg is kind. Greg is peace incarnate.

But Greg is also something terrible to see. He’s something that Jaskier’s seen hunt to live, his eyes narrowed and dangerous when turned upon a prey.

The buttercup burns against Jaskier’s chest, tucked into one of the pockets he always has fashioned in every doublet he buys. His hands shake at his side.

For once, he’s empty of any words that can change the horrors tearing through his mind like sharpened hooves ripping apart a field of flowers. He sees Geralt with his blades raised high; he sees Greg not understanding, not knowing he should run.

And he sees himself, not knowing what to do.

(Later that night, he and Geralt stumble back into the inn— both bloody and gross from the guts of some rather ruthless, but blessedly underfed, arachnomorph. 

Geralt doesn’t speak to Jaskier on the walk to the room, nor does he begin conversation as they wait for their baths to be prepared. He keeps his eyes distant, thinking of something Jaskier cannot hope to know.

As always, it’s Jaskier crashing through the silence first.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For fighting with you earlier about killing it.”

Geralt takes his time responding. For a terribly long moment, Jaskier fears Geralt hadn’t heard him— that he hadn’t had the strength to say the words out loud.

When Geralt finally speaks, it’s with a gruffness Jaskier hasn’t heard directed at him since the day they met.

“You have a habit of pitying the things people call monsters,” he says. “And, one day, it’s going to get you killed.”

Geralt leaves the room before Jaskier can find the words to say.

It’s all for the better, though. He's certain such words could never perfectly exist.)

* * *

But there are words that are perfect in their imperfection, words that fracture and twist and crack. Words that slip like thieves into daily speech, little barbs and cuts across this thing called friendship.

After the fight about the arachnomorph, things aren’t quite the same for Jaskier and Geralt. 

They travel together, still, but Jaskier stays behind more often than he’d like, afraid of the look in Geralt’s eyes whenever there’s a creature Jaskier may romanticize or ask too much about. He looks at him as if he’s afraid he’ll be asked to spare another beast, to give up a contract because of Jaskier’s bleeding heart.

Jaskier would never ask for such a thing. He knows better now.

But, still, there are words where Geralt laments Jaskier as a travel companion, jokes that sting a bit more without that reassuring glance. Words where Geralt only calls him a bard or a poet— never a friend and never, really, by his name.

And there are words where Jaskier tries to coax Geralt away from this path, his path, and towards something softer. Something humans wish for— things like trips to a place without monsters, a place where he can breathe without fear of losing either of his friends.

They’re simple things. They’re ignored.

But then there are the words with nothing but cold.

“If life could grant me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you  _ off my hands.”

And Jaskier is left speechless once more, spitting out words that don’t feel right in his mouth— words shaped like a farewell, like a promise broken.

There are words that ache and burn. There are words that slip under skin and bones and do nothing but break and scream.

Then there are the words that stay. 

And these are the words in Jaskier’s mind, long after he’s begun the trek back down the mountain.

* * *

Greg finds him first. Greg’s always been the one to find him first. 

“Oh, oh, Greg!” It’s hard to keep a chipper tone when Jaskier’s been on his own for the better part of a month, his mind incapable of doing anything other than repeating the harsh words thrown his way on the top of a cold mountain. Still, he tries to pin a smile on his face as familiar eyes emerge from a grouping of trees near Jaskier’s camp. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? How’ve you been?”

Greg pauses a few steps away from Jaskier, all eyes on the bard.

“I see you still have the hat,” Jaskier says, nodding towards it. “Good, good.”

He turns back to where he’d been trying to start a fire. Greg’s hand on his shoulder stops him, pulling him back around.

“Oh, you want to freeze tonight, then? I don’t know how to tell you this, but your lovely red coat is definitely more for style than it is for actual warmth.” It’s hard to joke when he’s so dubious of how his jokes will be heard, if they’re truly bores and annoyances to those unlucky enough to hear it. He’s never worried about that with Greg before— but, then, he never worried with Geralt, either, and that’s where everything started going wrong. He wants to bite his tongue to keep himself from doing any damage to the one friendship he has left but his words have always been just a touch more responsive than his mind. “Let go of me, Greg. I’m not in the mood for this.”

He tugs away from Greg’s touch, only slightly stinging when Greg doesn’t reach back out. It’s too familiar to the way he’d waited for Geralt to call him back, the way he took the longer trail down the mountain with the stupid hope he’d hear Geralt chasing him down. He walks away from people and expects them to find a way to pull him back, never once considering if he’s something worth chasing so far.

Greg steps back as Jaskier tends to the fire, working to light the wood he’d found earlier in the evening. Jaskier doesn’t think of how much easier it would be with Geralt’s signs to light it, or how empty the other side of the fire looks without Geralt’s bedroll laid out before it.

He doesn’t think of them— but only in the sense that its work to shove them from his mind, at all.

Decades at someone’s side. Decades of their voice and their presence and their face.

Jaskier sits back and watches the fire, wondering if there’s a way to burn all those thoughts with the wood.

He’s interrupted by a sudden prodding at his arm, something too sturdy to be Greg’s hand, though he can see him from the corner of his eye. With an overexaggerated sigh, Jaskier looks over and frowns at the lute being shoved into his shoulder.

“Not now,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. Greg keeps pushing. “Gods, Greg, I said not now!”

Greg stops. Jaskier keeps his gaze on the fire but his hardened expression begins to break. Guilt wells up in his body long before he turns to see Greg’s worried eyes. 

The lute falls into Jaskier’s lap, and Jaskier turns his head to stare at that.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just out of songs today.” He pauses and Greg lets him, their silence more comfortable than it is strange or forced. Jaskier takes deep breaths between each sentence, praying for his voice to be steady as he looks back into Greg’s many eyes.

“Truth be told, I’ve been out of songs for a long time, I think,” he says, something thick and cruel fitting into his throat. It’s like he’s back with the djinn, back with that curse and blood on his tongue, but Geralt’s not here to pull him to safety, not here to promise he won’t let him die. “And I don’t think I’m going to find them any time soon.”

He wants to say more, feels like he should say more, but his words were left in the wind of a mountaintop, stolen from him like gems he didn’t know he owned. He struggles, for a moment, staring at Greg and waiting for something to appear. Something to explain his sudden loneliness, someway to tell this story so Greg can understand why Jaskier’s vision is suddenly clouding with a warm mist. 

“I thought he was making it better,” Jaskier finally says, the words cracking on a choked back sob. He reaches for one of Greg’s hands without thinking only to find Greg’s already reaching back. “That this loneliness would finally go away. But I still feel so alone, Greg. I’m tired of always feeling so alone.”

It’s an ungrateful thing to say and he hates himself for it, for each word he cries because isn’t Greg the one who answered that prayer, to begin with? Wasn’t it Greg who arrived the first time Jaskier tossed such bitter words into the wind, torn apart by his desire for anything to free him from his spiraling thoughts? Wasn’t it Greg who carried him from that place, carried him to a road that led him to the greatest adventures of his life? 

An apology sits in the back of Jaskier’s throat but it tangles with the hitching breaths suddenly fleeing from his tongue like prisoners of war, something hot and heavy in his chest as he realizes he can’t remember the last time he let himself cry.

“I know I have you and I love you and adore you but I gave so much to Geralt, too,” he says, not knowing and not quite caring if Greg can hear him through his sobbing breaths. “I gave him almost everything and he simply hated me in return. He hated me and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

And he knows Greg doesn’t have an answer, no matter how pleading his words are. He knows Greg can’t solve this any more than he can. Still, Jaskier holds on.

Greg holds back, the rest of his arms pulling Jaskier into a much-needed embrace.

He holds Jaskier as he sobs in a way he hasn’t sobbed since he was Julian and didn’t know why his life felt so out of place, a time when the edges of the world dug into him like he was the one thing that didn’t fit. He hates himself for the weakness, for the emotion over a man whose one wish was for Jaskier to be gone, but something about giving in feels better than he knows it should. Like pieces of his heart are mending even as they break. Like crying until there’s nothing left will leave him with a chance to start again.

And, so, he lets himself break in the only arms he can trust. 

And Greg holds him through it, the way he always has.

* * *

This is how time moves.

They’re back to traveling together once more, longer than they ever have before. Jaskier only slips into villages when they need food or supplies, trusting Greg to wait for him in the areas outside of anyone’s sight. Every so often, he’ll spend a few days at an inn, playing for enough coin to make it to another town. It’s nice to have a bed those nights but he still sleeps best when Greg is tucked next to his side.

Time in the taverns and towns aren’t solely for traveling necessities, however. As weeks become months, word of Nilfgaard’s movements begins to appear in overheard conversations. Jaskier never directly asks but he pays attention, always planning the next right direction to go.

Greg doesn’t seem to care where they travel, simply that they do.

Eventually, Jaskier picks up the lute again, playing for reasons other than payment. It happens one night on the road, both of them well rested from a day of naps in a clear field. The stars are brighter than usual, the road smooth as Jaskier walks next to Greg’s side. He’s kept the instrument close out of habit alone but, tonight…

“Have you heard the one about the witcher?” He asks, he whispers. He doesn’t look up as Greg turns to face him, his eyes on the way his fingers fit on the strings. “The white wolf?”

It’s a dangerous song to play now that he knows how Nilfgaard’s been hunting Geralt and his child-surprise but he knows there’s no one around to hear— there’s never anyone else around when Greg’s with him, a fact he’s never thought to question.

He plays the song only once, his voice strengthening near the end of the second verse. He can’t bring himself to think of the words and their memories just yet but playing feels like healing. Greg nods along to the music as they walk, swaying enough that Jaskier fears he’ll fall over.

It makes him smile. It makes him laugh.

He keeps strumming even after the song is done, his fingers dancing along with chords and notes in a successful reunion. 

“You’re the first being to have ever openly liked my playing,” Jaskier says to Greg. “I used to think you were some hallucination because of that.”

Greg snorts, offended. Jaskier laughs.

“Yes, well, you can’t quite blame me, can you? No one’s ever seen you— and I know that for a fact, there’s no record of anything even close to looking like you in the libraries,” he says. “So you’re either, yes, a figment of my imagination, or you’re something else entirely.”

Their pace slows. They’ll need to stop somewhere soon if only to rest their legs. 

“It took me a while to put it together but once I did… Well, I fear it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Jaskier glances at Greg, his song fading into something softer— something barely-there beneath his words. “You’re something of an angel, aren’t you? A guardian angel for lost souls like me? I heard rumors of them when I was younger. Stories about beings from another realm meant to protect and guide the poor fellows who wouldn’t make it through life otherwise. I don’t mind, really. I’m just glad to have a friend.”

Jaskier plays a few more notes, a new melody hanging onto the edges of his mind. 

“Just let me know if you ever have to go back, okay?” He says. “And don’t you dare leave before I write the right song. I still need to let the world know about the angel named Greg.”

Greg huffs and kicks the ground.

They continue on their way.

* * *

Months and years. He doesn’t spend every day with Greg. As time goes on, they create a new routine— a new schedule that doesn’t fit around a certain witcher’s every movement, every whim. Jaskier finds time to fit in at an old university he’d once visited under the order of his parents. It’s been long enough that the professors who once might have recognized him have moved on or forgotten entirely, and the classes are more than thrilled to have the famous Jaskier offer his teachings every so often. He spends a good amount of time here, and Greg goes back to doing whatever he does when they’re apart. 

On the occasions where they do meet, though, it’s never a strange feeling. He doesn’t feel the need to wonder about what Greg gets up to any more than he feels dread at being left behind one day. Decades have passed since that day in the garden and both their buttercups still shine as brightly as ever. More proof that Greg’s an angel, he supposes. And proof that their promise can’t be broken. Greg, more than anyone or anything, is the one being he can rely on to always show up.

So, when a familiar white-haired figure appears in the doorway of a tavern Jaskier’s playing at, it’s more of a shock than he supposes it should be.

“Geralt,” he says when his set is done— his purse full and his lute held in a white-knuckled grip at his side. Already, his eyes pick out the new scars on Geralt’s skin, the new stories Jaskier will never be able to tell. 

“Jaskier,” and Geralt says it like he’s seeing the same thing, like the wrinkles on Jaskier’s skin are a surprise. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Jaskier swallows thickly. “Really? For how long?”

It’s bitter and it’s snappy and it’s out before he can think any better of it.

Somehow, Geralt smiles anyway, though it carries a somewhat saddened tinge.

“Not as long as I should have been, it seems,” he says. “If you have time, I’d like for us to talk.”

He wants to talk but Jaskier simply nods.

* * *

He’s imagined this a thousand times and acted more than half of those scenarios out with Greg on the road. The times when he’d describe the way he’d hit Geralt, his fist folded just right to prove he can take care of himself. The times when he’d ramble on for hours about all he’s done for him, all the meanings of all his songs. The times when he’d ask Greg if it’s okay to believe the apology and simply move on; the times when he’d ask if it’d be okay to just walk away.

They sit.

They talk.

Jaskier does none of those things he once thought.

* * *

“— missed you more than I’ve ever let myself miss a human so I—”

“—thought you hated me, wanted me out of your life for good, so I left. I left and—”

“—heard your songs everywhere I went, couldn’t get them out of my head, felt like a sign that I was—”

“—so alone, gods, it made me feel so alone, again. I never wanted to feel so sad—”

“—and I’m sorry, and I—”

“—don’t want to forgive you but I’ve missed you. Dearest gods, I’ve missed you so—”

They talk for hours, overlapping one another until their voices could be one and the same. He’s never heard Geralt speak so much or with such emotion, his eyes pleading just as much as his words when he tries to explain why he’s here. And Jaskier feels the same sorry tone in his own throat as he details the ways he’d traveled on the road with no idea of where he was going, no idea what place was home when every home he’d known had sent him away in some manner or another.

They talk and maybe Jaskier cries and maybe Geralt holds his hands and maybe, just maybe, there’s that spark of hope once more.

“Please, come back with me, Jaskier.”

“Geralt. Do you really have to ask?”

* * *

Geralt tells him they’re traveling to Kaer Morhen to reunite with Ciri and Yennefer and a handful of witchers Jaskier’s heard of but never met. Something tight fills his stomach at the thought but he’s walking alongside Geralt and Roach again. The world shifts just enough to fit him back inside it.

Geralt asks him questions as they travel, something he only ever did back when he was worried Jaskier was thinking too much. He asks about his time at Oxenfurt and what he taught, about the new songs he’s writing, about the adventures Geralt’s missed by being away from Jaskier for so long.

It’s not as awkward as it should be. By the afternoon of their second day, Jaskier’s back to speaking nonsense and calling Geralt silly names when he’s sure he’s not listening.

Somehow, Geralt notices the nicknames more than he used to. A little detail that brings a soft warmth to Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Anyway,” Jaskier goes on, explicitly detailing his latest escape from certain murder by a rather upset husband. “There I was, wine spilled all over my newest doublet, completely ruining the dye, and this short, balding man starts calling for the guards. By gods, Geralt, I would have called them, too, if only to point out the crimes done against my clothing. But, of course, he starts shouting about some ridiculous notion that I’d been in his son's chambers the night before— ridiculous, that is, because I’d been  _ performing  _ for his  _ banquet _ the night before— and he— Geralt? Geralt, are you listening?”

Geralt holds a hand up, swinging down from Roach’s back with a grace typically disguised by his size. Jaskier shuts up, recognizing the tension in Geralt’s shoulders as he points his sword towards the curve in the road, their vision of the rest of it obscured by a hill. Jaskier keeps still, listening for anything out of the ordinary, and watches as Geralt wrinkles his nose, his mouth screwing up in what must be confusion at whatever he smells.

“There’s something coming our way,” he says in a low voice. “I can’t tell what it is but it isn't human. Stay back. I’ll handle it.”

Though it’s been years since they’ve traveled together, falling back at Geralt’s command is an instinct never worked out of Jaskier’s mind. He stays by Roach, her reins tight in his hand as Geralt stalks forward, his steps light as he senses some monster coming their way.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, his heart pounding in a way it hasn’t in years, in a way that sounds of new stories to be sung and memories to be made. “Geralt, are you sure you should—”

The eyes appear first, an oversized head emerging from behind the hill. The rest of the details are less important— the eyes and arms and skewed hat— if only because they’re obscured by the sudden swing of Geralt’s sword.

“Wait!” Jaskier barely realizes he’s made the decision to run forward until he’s already at Geralt’s side, everything dropped to the ground as he grabs hold of Geralt’s wrist with both hands. “Geralt, wait, it’s— It’s  _ Greg!” _

Geralt takes a half-step back, thrown off balance by the way Jaskier digs his heels into the dirt and pulls back with all his weight.

“What?” Geralt growls, pulling his arm free with a wide swing of his sword over Jaskier’s head. Jaskier pays the blade no mind, barely ducking beneath it as he runs forward.

“Greg,” he says, brushing his fingers through Greg’s mane, tangled and rough. Pulling apart knots is a familiar feeling, one that eases him enough to smile back at Geralt. “His name is Greg.”

Geralt is often quiet but there’s something different about this silence, something in the way his mouth curls into an unsettled scowl. He keeps still but there’s a tightness in his body, something coiled around his muscles and keeping him in place. For a moment, only his eyes move, flickering from Greg to Jaskier to Greg and back again.

At last, he speaks in slow words, as if afraid Jaskier won’t understand.

“You know this thing,” he says, his blade lowering to his side instead of returning to its sheath. “You know it well.”

“Well, yes,” Jaskier says. He feels safer with his fingers in Greg’s mane, more secure with the way Greg leans his head into his shoulder— the smallest of barriers between him and Geralt’s hardening gaze. “He’s… Greg was my first friend.”

Geralt looks more confused than Jaskier has ever seen him look in all their years of knowing one another.

“You’ve never mentioned— I mean, I don’t recall you ever saying—”

“We met when my name was still Julian.” Jaskier gives in before Geralt can figure out how to word whatever it is he’s thinking, his eyes on the way Greg’s soft coat brushes his palms as he pets the side of his neck, trying not to lean in too much lest he breaks apart under Greg’s wary gaze. “I told you the story of how I left home but I never really told you the way or how. It’s hard for me to explain the way my family hated everything I loved, the way their world never fit what I wanted for my own life. I was lucky to have the childhood I did, I know, but, over time, I grew to resent it. All I ever wanted was music and a life of my own experiences but everything told me I was a fool for wishing it.”

Though he keeps his hand on the sword’s hilt, the tension in Geralt’s body begins to visibly ease away under Jaskier’s words.

“One night, Greg found me trying to play music. And he liked it.” Jaskier laughs, sharing a smile with Greg. “He’s a bit more critical of what I play now but, then, he liked every note. Sour or out of tune, he didn’t care. He was my first real audience. And, when the time came, he’s the one who took me away from that terrible place.”

Jaskier glances back over at Geralt, at the questions still forming in his eyes. There are answers in the form of stories scattered throughout Jaskier’s mind, memories and tales he’s been too afraid to share with anyone. Greg’s always been his secret, his one certainty untouched by the rest of the world's indifference. He’s turned to Greg every time he’s felt alone. 

He twists his fingers into Greg’s mane, holding perhaps a bit tighter than he’d usually mean to. Greg doesn’t seem to notice, half his eyes on Jaskier as the others fix on Geralt with an uncertain squint.

“Another monster you adopted,” Geralt says. 

“No,” Jaskier snaps, scowling at Geralt’s words. “A  _ friend _ , Geralt. Something just as alone as I was. For the longest time, it was just the two of us against the world, and that was okay.” His expression softens and he meets Geralt’s eyes with a small shrug. “I have stories I can tell you about us if you’ll listen.”

“Jaskier, I don’t even know what this is,” Geralt says, though his voice isn’t as abrupt as it was before.

“That’s okay,” Jaskier says, trying to put on a reassuring grin. It’s hard, though, with Geralt’s hand around his sword, with his eyes still so untrusting of the creature before him. “You can’t be expected to know everything about odd creatures and such.”

“I’m—”

“A witcher, yes, and a good one,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. “But Greg’s my friend, and I’d thank you not to look at him like he’s something you’ve just hunted in the name of a contract.”

Geralt growls. Greg returns the sound.

Jaskier steps between them before it evolves into some contest.

“Please, Geralt,” he says, all jokes and tenderness gone as he holds his arms up to keep either from growing too close to the other. “Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Geralt says and, under any other circumstance, the easy confession would stun Jaskier for a week. “But you tend to underestimate the dangers of the things you befriend. I know you, Jaskier.”

“Then you would know Greg’s the only thing to have never hurt me,” Jaskier snaps. “And you would know that Greg was the one to find me after I left the mountain, not you.”

He’s sure, if he’d let himself give into such expressions of emotion, that Geralt would recoil from the words. The way his eyes shift from mistrust to guilt is proof enough of that. 

Jaskier sighs. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not fair of me to bring it up, not after you came all this way to change how we left things,” he tells Geralt, letting one hand fall from Greg’s mane to toy nervously with the straps of his lute. “But Greg has been with me through things no one else even knows. He’s an important part of my life, Geralt.”

“And has anyone else ever seen him?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “If you’re about to accuse me of being mad while we’re both here, looking at him, then your argument’s weaker than I—”

“I’m just trying to figure out why this creature no one’s heard of has attached itself to you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows he’s trying to keep calm, trying to explain his thoughts.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, trying to keep his own defenses down. But hearing words against Greg is as bad as hearing words about Geralt. He can’t let it go so easily.

“I have my ideas on what he is,” Jaskier says, softly.

“What?” Geralt asks.

_ My guardian angel.  _

Instead, Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t know for sure. And I don’t need to explain it to you. Now, I will only ask once more— will you leave my friend alone?”

He doesn’t look up from the ground but he can still feel the way Geralt tenses, the way he and Greg are still staring each other down.

“Alright,” Geralt says, finally. Jaskier looks up in time to see him putting his sword away. “If you say he’s good, I’ll believe it until I’m proven otherwise.”

After too many nightmares about Geralt slaying Greg in the dark, of someone hiring him to kill the strange creature in the trees, it’s a better response than Jaskier could have ever hoped it would be.

“It won’t take long to prove, I just know it,” Jaskier says with a smile and breathless laugh. 

Geralt grunts, turning to get back on Roach.

“Can you ride that thing?” He asks. “We’ll cut down on travel time if it’ll let you on.”

_ “Let  _ me? Rare are the days where Greg lets me so much as walk beside him. The only person more concerned about my blisters than I am is him.” Jaskier kisses Greg briefly in the space between his two middle eyes before moving past to get up on his back. It shouldn’t be a comfortable position but it’s never bothered Jaskier— definitely further proof of Greg’s angelic magic, no doubt. “Anyway, I’ll bet my next song that you two will be fast friends before the year is through. He just needs to get through your walls and toughness, and you just need to see past all the eyes and limbs.”

“I don’t think it’s the limbs that worry me,” Geralt says, leading Roach into an easy trot alongside Greg. Roach starts a little as they near the creature but otherwise pays him no mind, shaking her head and carrying along. 

“Oh, you say talk all big but, years from now, you’ll look back and feel bad for ever judging anyone or anything by their appearance,” Jaskier says, patting Greg reassuringly as they ride alongside Geralt and Roach. It’s a bit of an odd feeling, no longer trying to keep up on his feet; it’s even odder to feel Greg’s mane beneath his fingers but hear Geralt’s voice so close by, like edges of his life crossing over into places never before explored. “Besides, now I get to finally tell you all about the many amazing adventures of Greg and his runaway bard. It’s only fair, you know, seeing as he’s heard all about you.”

Geralt makes a thoughtful humming noise. “Maybe that’s why he doesn’t seem to like me.”

Jaskier considers the statement and the way Greg keeps shooting strange glances in Geralt’s direction. Fair enough, he supposes. Perhaps now isn’t the best time for them to meet, especially after all the complaints Greg’s heard from Jaskier about Geralt in the past few years.

Still—

“Perhaps it is,” Jaskier says, with a smile as brilliant as the sun— as warm as the cloudless blue sky above. “But it’s also why he’ll come to love you, too.”

Because Jaskier’s spoken of the witcher’s great deeds, the good he’s done and the praise he deserves. He’s shared about his humanity, his heart, his care and how easy it is to see once you know it’s there. After all that— and despite everything else— Jaskier knows Greg must know how good Geralt is.

And, once Jaskier’s able to tell Geralt the same about Greg— when he finds the time and the words and a moment when the witcher will listen—, Geralt will know Greg is good, too. He’ll know about how Greg saved him from a life he hates, how he helped him find his name. Jaskier will talk for hours about the jokes they share and the travels down roads he’s sure Geralt has never seen. At last, he’ll be able to sing those songs about Greg for someone other than just the two of them.

Because now he has his two best friends with him, the two beings he loves most in the world. And things may not be perfect yet but, he knows, perfect takes time; with time, he’s sure Geralt and Greg will be as close as he’s always dreamed they could be.

Safe on Greg’s back, Jaskier pulls his lute forward and begins strumming a new song. No words yet, and there’s only half a melody to be found. Still, it rings of everything he’s ever wanted.

It rings with the promise that, more than ever, he can smile and sing freely with the knowledge that he truly doesn’t need to be lonely any more— that he may never have to feel lonely ever again.

The world twists and Jaskier feels himself and his best friends fit into a new slot, creating a new part of Jaskier's life to live and explore. 

Jaskier wouldn’t have it any other way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes Jaskier and Greg home to Kaer Morhen with him, but only because leaving Greg behind would mean he'd have to leave Jaskier behind, too. 
> 
> Basically, he doesn't trust the damned horse. And he doesn't expect anyone else to trust him, either.
> 
> He's in for a bit of a surprise.
> 
> AKA: The One Where Everyone But Geralt Likes Greg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy!!! So, I didn't mean to actually add much more to this. I mean, I posted the bit at the end of the author's note last time but, you know, I'm actually not really good at committing to anything so that was more of a hypothetical at the time.
> 
> Yeah, well. Here we go. Another 13,000 words about Joey's D&D Demon Horse. I don't know how proud I am. 
> 
> <>
> 
> One of my biggest fears in writing this was that I'd ruin a good thing (the first bit) by adding a bunch of unnecessary less good things. So, if you don't like this chapter, feel free to ignore it and just focus on the first half. Like I said, I don't know how proud I am of this (but, goodness, it was fun)
> 
> <>
> 
> Last note! I've just finished reading The Last Wish and I've rewatched the series (in various stages of inebriation) many times over the past few weeks. That's as much as I know about Geralt's character. Jaskier's easier to write. It's about the ~projection~

Kaer Morhen isn’t a stranger to the unusual. In fact, its welcoming air for the odd and outcast is precisely what makes it such a home to Geralt. A place of refuge, of sanctuary, a place to retreat to when the world grows cold in more ways than one. Witchers aren’t welcome in polite society. Well, that’s all fine because Kaer Morhen won’t welcome polite society in its walls, anyway.

Still, Geralt thinks, Kaer Morhen isn’t often as strange as the outside world may consider. A world away from monsters and judgment and destiny and myths— Geralt’s not one to run away but, if he were to ever try, it’d be to Kaer Morhen, if only because he knows prophecy and beasts could never follow him here.

But, this? Jaskier and his charming smile turned at this thirteen-eyed beast, one hand around his lute and the older holding one of Greg’s six arms— this is almost everything Geralt’s ever been afraid of. Something he’s avoided through so many scowls and swears at destiny’s face. Because he never really meant for Jaskier to be here— to see him in the place where humanity is left behind, where Geralt and his brothers joke at the idea of ever being one of  _ them _ . And he certainly never meant to bring Jaskier here while they’re still not quite on perfect terms; not while Jaskier’s new friend still looks at Geralt like he’s the enemy, like he knows he’s a monster Geralt instinctively wishes to cut down.

Because Greg— and, damn it all, of course Jaskier would name a monster something so inane, so human— is taller than Jaskier, its arms longer and thicker with muscle. His eyes are always on the bard but, still, always darting from one corner to the other. Geralt’s chest tightens when he sees one of those many eyes on him. It’s not unlike the way he feels when faced with nekkers or drowners or a kikimore. 

Still, Jaskier begged him to leave the beast be and Geralt’s lost his right to ignore Jaskier’s wishes. 

_ “He’s gentle,”  _ Jaskier had said as they’d ventured the trail to Kaer Morhen together, stroking Greg’s neck like some kind of pet.  _ “He’s my friend.” _

He said these things as if they could prove that Greg’s safe. He forgets he calls Geralt his friend, too.

When they finally enter Kaer Morhen, Geralt holds a hand up, bringing their party to a pause.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, still balanced on Greg’s back. Geralt does his best not to frown even as Greg narrows his eyes at him.

Geralt takes time finding his words as if he hadn’t been considering them all through the trip. He grunts. He sighs. He looks away from Jaskier.

“The other witchers here may take some time to warm up to… to your friend,” he says, the word sour on his tongue. “They won’t hurt him but don’t expect them to understand. They can be pricks when they want. Lambert, especially.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard your complaints,” Jaskier says with a sharp smile and a roll of his eyes. He’s as unbothered as ever, laughing to himself with a shake of his head. “Now can we go in? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s freezing out here.”

“Be glad we made it back before the first real snow,” Geralt says, glancing at the smaller flakes drifting down around them, each one melting before collecting on the ground. “And don’t take my warning lightly.”

“Alright, I hear you,” Jaskier says. “Your family won’t immediately want to be friends with my horse. Suppose I’ll just have to count on you to put a good word in for us.” Jaskier’s eyes shine with something unreadable when he glances at Geralt. “You will do that, won’t you? Make sure they don’t hate us entirely?”

It’s because Jaskier says it with that tone he’s taken on ever since they’ve reunited. Almost fearful, afraid he’s overstepping some boundary Geralt never placed. Geralt’s still not entirely certain how he’s supposed to handle this; the increased heart rate, the tremble in the corner of his lips and the slight scent of trepidation on Jaskier’s being. It isn’t something he thinks he’ll ever be used to.

“I’m sure they won’t hate you,” he says, moving Roach forward and further into the keep. In the distance, he can hear Eskel and Lambert arguing over who’s to blame for some misplaced armor— a mistake that could have been made by either, despite Lambert’s pranks and careless ways. If he focuses on their voices, he doesn’t have to hear the small huff Jaskier gives before following; he doesn’t have to wonder what that heavy breath means.

Soon enough, they reach the stable. Roach snorts as Geralt gets off, leading her in.

“Geralt!” 

Geralt smiles, the familiar voice unraveling the bit of tension wrapped around his chest.

“Ciri,” he says, turning to collect the younger girl into his arms as she runs to him. 

“You found your friend?” She asks, peering around him to where Jaskier’s trying to convince Greg to pick an empty spot in the stables. “Jaskier?”

At the sound of his name, Jaskier looks at her.

“Princess!” He says, falling into a quick but respectful bow. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“Geralt’s told me about you, too,” she says, still smiling. “I’m glad you came back with him. He’s been rather—”

“What have you brought back to us, Geralt?” Vesemir interrupts from behind her, much to Geralt’s relief. The feeling, though, is short-lived as Vesemir looks past him and towards Greg. “You said you were looking for the bard. Nothing more.”

“And that was the truth, at the time,” Geralt says. “We ran into a friend of his on the road. Both were intent on coming together.”

Vesemir’s brows wrinkle just enough for Geralt to recognize it as an expression of pondering, of wondering whether or not he’ll let this peculiar thing stay. A human guest is one thing; an unknown monster is another matter entirely. If he turns Greg away, though…

Would Jaskier leave him for this other friend? This thing he’s never mentioned until he was forced? Geralt thinks of midnight conversations, years ago, traveling in the dark with Jaskier— darkness and lateness that encouraged thoughtless words. Geralt was always better at filtering his thoughts but, then, Jaskier would burst with a strange sort of energy, filling the air with tales of past loves and old adventures. Times before Geralt, people he knew and thought of often.

He’s had the chance to mention Greg before. But, somehow, he never did. 

Something in Geralt’s chest hardens. The battle-ready feeling from before returns.

“Ciri, help Jaskier and his friend settle in,” he says, though his eyes turn to fix on Greg. “I think Vesemir and I need to talk.”

* * *

“You told me the sorceress was the only dangerous thing you’d be bringing home.”

As far as lectures go, this is perhaps one of the tamer ones. Still, Geralt grimaces and looks away from Vesemir’s eyes.

“I’ve no doubt Yennefer is still more powerful than whatever pet Jaskier’s caught now,” Geralt says in a low grumble. “But I understand your concern with him. Trust me, I have my own questions about it.”

Vesemir’s eyebrow raises. Geralt does his best not to feel like a scolded young boy.

“Then you’ve not asked the bard to explain himself?” Vesemir asks. 

“I have, a bit,” Geralt says. “But asking questions is hard when he’s braiding flowers into the thing’s hair.”

Geralt has a slight feeling that Vesemir doesn’t believe him. Not that Geralt’s lying entirely but… but Greg’s presence wasn’t the only obstacle in Geralt’s way. After all, Jaskier’s wariness is just as much a hindrance as the monster he rides. Geralt can ask all the questions he’d like but he’d be a fool to believe he’d deserve the truth. Not after what he said and after how long it’s been since he and Jaskier could be considered close.

Vesemir doesn’t say anything, simply watching as Geralt grunts and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“I understand that you trust Jaskier?” Vesemir prompts after an extended moment.

“I do.” Geralt might be embarrassed by how quickly he answers, if not for how strongly he believes his own statement.

Vesemir nods. “His creature, then, can stay so long as it proves to be as gentle as it seems. But I’d advise wariness around it.”

“I’ll see if I can get Jaskier to say anything more on his history with it. From what I gathered, they’ve known each other for a long time. He may know more than he thinks about Greg’s nature,” Geralt says. 

“And I’ll spend some time in the library looking for answers,” Vesemir says. “Who knows? This may be a more fortunate event than we believe.”

Geralt snorts, not voicing his disbelief but not attempting to hide it, either. It brings a small grin to Vesemir’s face, though, and he smiles back.

“If we’re lucky, Jaskier’s prattling on about his songs will be the only disturbance we face this winter,” Geralt says. 

Vesemir breathes out a small laugh, though it’s more a sigh than anything else.

“I’d hesitate before calling it a disturbance,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes that Geralt doesn’t quite like. “Eskel and Lambert are rather excited to hear all about the bard’s White Wolf.”

“Fuck,” Geralt says with more emotion than he has in a while. “Tell them I’ve changed my mind. I’m taking Jaskier back to Oxenfurt.”

“You would never. Not after how miserable you were without him here,” Vesemir says. Geralt grunts and looks back down, his words sticking in his throat before he can find out how to dispute what Vesemir’s said. “And I’m sure your brothers will appreciate having his entertainment around.”

“Hm. Maybe.” Geralt shakes his head. It isn’t hard to imagine his brothers surrounding Jaskier after dinner, drunk and joking and asking for ridiculous songs. And, gods, how Jaskier would give in. Always happy to share his exaggerated versions of all of Geralt’s fights, eyes flashing towards Geralt’s with mischief and glee— his cheeks ruddy from ale, his dancing around the room frenetic but his hands always certain on his lute. Loath as he is to admit it, Vesemir’s right; his brothers will love having Jaskier around.

Greg, on the other hand…

“Vesemir?” Geralt asks as the older man turns to leave, calling him back at the last second. “Will you speak with Eskel and Lambert about Greg? Make certain they’re… understanding? I can’t imagine they’ll be much more welcoming than I am towards him.”

Vesemir waits a beat and then nods. Geralt releases the tightness that had curled in his shoulders at the thought of his brothers attacking Jaskier’s friend— no matter how much Geralt might like to do the same.

“Go wash up and then meet us for dinner,” Vesemir says, dismissing him. “I’ll introduce your bards to the others. If you’re lucky, they’ll be tired of  _ Toss A Coin  _ by the time you join us.”

Geralt grins. “When has luck ever been kind to me?”

Vesemir only smiles and then leaves Geralt on his own.

* * *

For the first few days, Geralt forgets about his concerns and, instead, wallows in the contentment Kaer Morhen often brings. Safety. Comfort. Family. The last one even more so now with Yennefer, Ciri and Jaskier to appreciate the warmth of the keep with him. 

Eskel and Lambert take to Greg with greater ease than Geralt might have expected, though they both shot him confused glances when the horse tried to shake their hands. Nevermind the fact the horse never really tried to shake  _ his  _ hand but he supposes it’s fair, considering he did try to kill him, after all. And Greg stays out of his way, for the most part, trailing after Jaskier like some puppy or staying in the stables with Roach.

Geralt would never ask it out loud but he often wonders whether or not the two horses converse with each other. He watches the stables every now and then with this question in his head, only stopping when Yennefer one day begins laughing so loudly Ciri admits she's afraid she’s gone mad. 

Yennefer never said what it was that made her laugh. Geralt would rather not think about the possibilities.

Instead, it’s easier to focus on training Ciri. He and his brothers take turns teaching her different things, setting something of a schedule for her to follow throughout the week. He and Lambert practice various forms of combat with her for most of the day, ranging from hand-to-hand to swordsmanship. Eskel steals her away later in the afternoon every so often to help her learn the signs, showing her how to shape her hands and focus on the intent behind each one. She’s not been able to achieve any of them just yet, but Yennefer’s insistent that magic is magic and Ciri’s should translate into the witcher world soon enough.

For her part, Yennefer takes Ciri after dinner, the two of them hiding away in Yennefer’s room to practice spells and other forms of chaos. She rarely lets Geralt watch— certain his presence will be too distracting and that he has nothing to add to the lessons, anyway— but, when he does, the room swells with Ciri’s magic. If he didn’t care so much for the girl, he’d almost find it terrifying.

Vesemir gets Ciri early in the morning some days, bringing her to the library to learn the history of magic and witchers and their shared world. Though she’s more advanced than most girls her age would be— the advantage of royal tutors and such— there’s still much for her to learn. Vesemir has a certain kind of patience that warms Geralt’s heart whenever he stumbles upon the two huddled together over a book. 

But time proves that his heart can grow warmer, still.

It’s dark out and Ciri had run off to bed a few hours ago. Geralt wanders aimlessly around the keep, reveling in the fact that he can openly walk about without fear of monsters or men who’d do him and his loved ones wrong. The others had last been seen gathered in the main hall, their cheeks bright from strong drinks and better humor than he’d seen in days. Jaskier had been fiddling about with his songs for a bit, fitting in with all the ease that he fits in anywhere. His song playing, though, hadn’t lasted for long before Geralt had threatened to break the instrument over his knee if he played  _ Toss A Coin  _ one more time. Lambert had told Jaskier he’d pay him for every new verse he could add to the song; Jaskier, being Jaskier, had taken the deal joyfully, prompting Geralt’s quick exit from the scene.

Now, though, he wanders. His thoughts aren’t meaningful and they don’t have to be. He thinks of whether or not Ciri’s ready for more complex technique, of where Yennefer gets her supplies from, of his own parody of Jaskier’s songs, of if it will be warm enough to leave his window open tonight.

A few hours have passed and he’s beginning to think of how awful Eskel’s cooking can be when he hears music from a few rooms down.

Not from the main hall where he’d last seen the others. Not from Jaskier’s room, either. 

He walks slowly, peering into Ciri’s room with his breath held in his chest.

Something greater than contentment or joy fills his body, flooding out any and every other thought.

Ciri and Jaskier sit side by side on her bed, his lute propped in her lap with a clumsy grasp. She’s got her eyebrows furrowed together, her nose wrinkled as Jaskier laughs and tries to help her fingers reach the proper chords. She holds the lute close to her body, her fingers stiff with frustration around the neck. Geralt’s seen her make the same mistake with her knives, holding too tight and restricting her access. Geralt nearly steps forward but—

“Loosen your grip just a bit, dear,” Jaskier says, taking the lute to show her what he means. “What is it those wolves are always saying about you and your weapons? It’s an extension of your body. You don’t need to force it.”

Ciri sighs but the tension in her face eases as she reaches to run her fingers across the strings, treating it like something precious as Jaskier strums a few random chords. 

“When I try, it sounds like a strangled cat,” she pouts. “How do you make it sound so… pretty?”

“Practice—”

“Everyone says to practice but you can’t really get good at something if you don’t care, right?” Ciri interrupts, turning fully to look at Jaskier. Her back is to Geralt from this angle but he can picture her insistent eyes, her small frown. “Don’t tell me what everyone else says. Tell me why  _ you’re  _ good at it.”

If Geralt had known that asking a question as simple as that was all it would take to leave Jaskier speechless, he would have asked it years ago. As it is, Jaskier’s gawks at Ciri with his mouth wide open, something brightening his eyes as he searches for an answer.

“I, well—” He softens, gaze going distant as his strumming slows into an old familiar tune, one of the gentler pieces he’d been putting together before the mountain. He’d never finished it and Geralt had never thought to ask what had become of the blossoming ballad. He smiles, seeming to melt as he does so. “I suppose it’s because I care, just as you said. The way I see it, a bard can write as many songs as he’d like but it means nothing if you’ve got no one to sing to. And I don’t mean the faceless general audience. I mean someone real. They don’t have to listen, mind you, but it’s enough, I guess, to just know they’re out there.”

“Really?” Ciri pauses, sitting back as Jaskier continues to play, his actions almost thoughtless even as he makes music out of nothing. “Then, who—”

A sudden snorting noise emerges from the other side of the room, Greg making himself known with an urgency that has Geralt reaching for a sword— despite the fact that he has none on him.

“Greg!” Jaskier jumps to his feet, the lute falling from his grasp and saved from a crash landing only by Ciri’s quick reach for it. “What is—”

Greg walks towards the door, emerging from the side of the room Geralt hadn’t been able to see. The horse must have been watching them, something that fills Geralt’s stomach with a heavy weight as he realizes he hadn’t noticed its presence before.

At the same time, Jaskier turns to him with a look that means he hadn’t noticed Geralt, either.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry, were you needing Ciri? We bumped into each other on the way to the kitchen and came back here after. Now, I’d simply meant to find something to drink but she’s the dreadful one who snuck the figs so if you’re here about that, it’s entirely her fault.” Ciri makes a sound of protest but Jaskier carries on, his smile shaking in some strange manner. “You weren’t there for long, though, were you? Suppose I wouldn’t know— I’m not the one with the witcher senses— but it’d be rude to just linger there like a ghost or shadow, though that makes a good lyric. Remind me to write it down— Well, anyway, did you need anything?”

It’s not until Jaskier reaches the end of his rant that Geralt hears the sound of Jaskier’s heart. Quick, frantic. Almost afraid but not quite. Coupled with the pink in his cheeks and that awkward smile, he’d almost say Jaskier’s embarrassed. Ciri, too, watches them with a nervous glance, her own heart steadier than Jaskier’s but still quick from the rush of being caught. 

Geralt would tell them they’d nothing wrong— other than the figs, of course, and keeping Ciri awake far too late when Jaskier knows she rises early in the morning— but the two heartbeats keep his tongue still.

Because there’s a third creature in the room. And he can’t hear its heart at all. 

What Geralt feels at the realization is nothing other than a numbing rush across his limbs, not unlike the fear he feels when faced with an opponent larger than he’d been told he’d fight. Deception and wariness crash against his lungs, and he takes a step back.

Greg watches him, moving to stand between Geralt and the other two. It’s subtle— subtle enough he’s sure no one else notices— but Geralt recognizes it. Greg’s separating Geralt from Jaskier and Ciri; Greg doesn’t trust him.

Why, then, should Geralt trust Greg?

“Take your horse outside,” he says once he’s found his voice, the words harsher than he means them to be. He’s sure there’s something more he can add but Jaskier’s already frowning and Ciri’s eyes follow Geralt’s movements as he turns away from the room.

“Can you show me one more song, first?” Ciri asks Jaskier as Geralt leaves. 

Even as he walks away, Geralt can hear Jaskier’s soft sigh.

“I don’t think Geralt would like me bothering you for much longer. And, besides, I need to see Greg out. I suppose it was wrong to sneak him in but I felt bad leaving him alone, and he wanted to meet you properly,” he says. He doesn’t sound truly wounded but he also doesn’t sound okay with his words. It’s reluctant, halfway sad. “We can play again tomorrow. Good night, princess.”

“Good night, Jask.”

Geralt continues further away, pausing only when he hears Jaskier leading his horse back outside.

He doesn’t turn around, not even when he feels the burden of thirteen eyes gazing back at him.

* * *

Later that night, Geralt gazes out his window with something almost like peace settling inside his chest. Fluttering around his ribs and prodding at his heart, held back only by the brief pull of resignation. 

He’d watched, earlier, as Jaskier had led Greg to the stables, rambling on and on about Ciri’s budding skill with the lute and his hopes to teach her other forms of art during the next few months. Greg hadn’t said anything, simply nodding along as Jaskier spoke. Perhaps that’s why they get along so well— Jaskier had finally found someone who could put up with his ceaseless speaking.

But, then, no. That’s not it. Because then Jaskier had hugged Greg good night and gone back inside. And, a few moments later, Greg had stumbled across the yard to sit outside Jaskier’s window.

Jaskier’s bedroom is with the others on one of the upper floors but that doesn't seem to matter to the horse as he settles into some sort of sleeping position, head turned towards the window above him. He hadn’t looked in Geralt’s direction once, all his focus set on Jaskier. Even now, as the rest of the keep sleeps, Greg wakes every so often to glance up into Jaskier’s room. From this angle, Geralt can’t see what he sees but he can still watch as Greg nods to himself every so often, watching Jaskier’s window before falling back asleep.

It’s… unsettling. Even more so when Geralt considers how Jaskier claimed to know this thing for years. Geralt’s lived a long time. He’s known many people for many years— there aren’t many of them he’d trust.

“Hm,” he says to himself, still watching as Greg sleeps just below Jaskier’s room. Has he been doing this every night? How long has he had this clear obsession with Jaskier? It can’t be healthy; it can’t be safe.

Geralt resolves to ask the others about it when he has the chance. Perhaps he can have them keep a closer eye on this thing, make certain it has no ill-will towards them or Jaskier. The thought alone of this creature plotting against Jaskier this entire time— pretending to be his friend, gaining his trust and love only to cast it all aside in some cruel scheme— nearly brings a growl through Geralt’s lips. He understands that Jaskier loves odd things— it’s one of the reasons Geralt had been so fascinated by the human on their first few adventures— but there’s no use welcoming in a monster that only wants to watch him hurt.

Geralt keeps his eyes on Greg for the rest of the night. Greg doesn’t move from his guard outside Jaskier’s room.

And Geralt’s trust of him diminishes with each trembling second.

* * *

Geralt never used to think about what horses do in the morning until he finds himself stalking towards the stables the next day, mouth screwed up into a scowl as he realizes Greg must have returned there sometime between dawn and now. Geralt had stayed up nearly all night watching him, only sleeping when he’d confirmed the horse-monster wasn’t going to do anything evil yet.

Now, though, he plans on confronting him. In whatever way a horse-monster can be confronted.

It sounds stupid, he knows, but Yennefer’s not around to read his mind and it’s not like he’d tell anyone about his suspicions until he can confirm them. No, it’s easier to go to Greg on his own— threaten him a bit, let him know he’s onto him, warn him that he’s the stranger here in Geralt’s home. And, once Greg inevitably loses his temper and lashes out, Geralt knows his family will be on his side, if they aren’t already.

Greg’s awake when Geralt walks into his stall, the creature’s head turned back at a strange angle to look at something behind him. Still, a few eyes turn towards Geralt as he walks in, narrowing as Greg takes a half step away.

Geralt narrows his own eyes right back.

“I don’t know what plans you have here or with Jaskier,” he starts in a low and menacing tone, the same one that works with every monster he’s faced. “But I’ll have you know that I won’t sit idly by while you plot against him or anyone here. You may have gained his trust but, I assure you, winning over me or my brothers won’t be so—”

_ “Baaah.” _

Geralt pulls back, nose wrinkling. 

“Did you just…?”

Greg’s not a thing that should have the ability to look smug but, as the horse turns ever so slightly, Geralt can’t help but feel offended by his superior gaze.

“What the fuck?”

Greg, of course, doesn’t answer.

Lil Bleater, standing comfortably on Greg’s back, doesn’t either.

Geralt stares. He’s not good with words often, anyway, but this is a completely new level of speechlessness. It’s as if every thought or feeling he’s ever had has evaporated, escaping as he gawks and tries to understand just what the hell he’s looking at.

Lil Bleater— Eskel’s pet goat, for Melitele’s sake— simply stares back at Geralt with no sense of peril anywhere in her eyes. As if she’s not standing on the back of a monster. 

Geralt really fucking does not have the time or patience for this.

“What are you doing with the goat?” Geralt asks warily, rather fucking upset that he has to defend Eskel’s  _ goat  _ of all things. “What… What is this?”

Greg smiles. Geralt swears the fucking thing  _ smiles _ .

Geralt regrets not bringing any of his swords out here with him. A foolish mistake, Vesemir would say, but Geralt had thought this would be just a conversation. He didn’t know Lil Bleater would be held hostage during it.

“Put the goat back on the ground,” Geralt says, adding a harsh tone to his voice. “Or you won’t like what I have to—”

“Ah. There you are,” Eskel says, walking in and interrupting Geralt’s threat. It’s rather rude but at least now Geralt won’t have to face Greg alone. He turns to his brother, jaw tight.

“Greg has Lil Bleater,” Geralt says, refusing to acknowledge how ridiculous that particular sentence is. “I don’t know what he’s planning to do with her.”

Eskel, for his part, seems a bit too unconcerned about the entire thing. 

“Hopefully not terrify the poor girl again,” Eskel says with a meaningful look Greg’s way. What the meaning is, though, Geralt fails to understand. “But I guess she likes standing on his back more than being picked up by six hands at once. Can’t say I blame her much.”

Of all the concerns to have, this one didn’t even make Geralt’s list.

He’s still struggling for words when Eskel steps forward, his hand outstretched towards Lil Bleater to feed her some chopped carrots. Then, he passes some to Greg, as well.

Geralt gives up on words and does his best not to do something dramatic, like gasp or let his jaw drop. 

Eskel continues to pass over small snacks to the two, smiling as he does so. Geralt stares, trying to make sense of it; he fails.

“Aren’t… Aren’t you concerned about Greg?” He asks, finally asking the one question that he shouldn’t have to ask his most rational brother.

Eskel, though, looks back with a confused frown.

“What do you mean?” He asks. Geralt does a weak gesture at Greg, hoping to emphasize that he means Greg’s presence in general, but Eskel glances over as Greg shoves a carrot into his mouth. “Oh. Yeah, I asked Jaskier. Carrots are alright for him.”

That’s so not what Geralt meant.

“Lil Bleater’s on his back,” Geralt says slowly. “That’s not normal.”

Eskel laughs. 

“Don’t talk to me about pets ending up in strange places,” he says through his chuckles. “Aren’t you the one with the horse who likes to stand on roofs?”

Geralt leaves with a grumble about horses being better than goats, anyway.

Eskel continues to stay with Greg and Lil Bleater, his fond laughter following Geralt even as he walks away.

* * *

It’s easy— mostly— to forget about the strange exchange with Greg and Eskel once breakfast is done and he’s tasked with repairing some of the outer walls with Lambert. After the morning Geralt had had, chores with Lambert is almost enjoyable.

Almost. 

Geralt rolls his eyes as Lambert fills the time with complaints about the bad ale he’d had at the last tavern he’d visited before heading back here, his descriptions detailed enough to put even Jaskier’s best lyrics to shame. Geralt doesn’t respond much more than a few nods and grunts, laughing when Lambert makes a joke and punching him in the arm when the jokes are about him. His mind wanders, just a bit, but only into safe territory. The few hours pass easily and the concern from before lifts from Geralt’s chest.

Of course, it’s when they’re packing up and making their way to the training ground to meet with Ciri that they spot Greg across the yard, eating apples with Jaskier as Ciri struggles with the armor the witchers had been able to scrap together for her. It’s a bit oversized and heavier than it should be but, Geralt reasons, learning to work with the weight will only benefit her in the future.

Jaskier offers to help her but it’s Greg who reaches for the last strap when she walks to them, using his many hands to finish tying her into it more immediately than she could have done on her own.

Geralt doesn’t notice he’s grimacing until Lambert nudges him with a knowing look.

“You’re worried about the horse?” Lambert says. Geralt grunts.

“Only because I’m not entirely certain it’s actually a horse,” he admits.

Lambert gives a small hum, turning his gaze towards Greg and the others. “He’s not done anything yet, right?”

He’s slept outside Jaskier’s room despite the chilled night air. He’s charmed Eskel and Ciri in such a short amount of time. He still looks at Geralt with nothing but disdain.

“Hm,” Geralt says. “Nothing worth noting.”

Lambert nods but he does so with a small grin. “Let’s just keep an eye on him, then. I doubt even that thing’s stupid enough to try anything in a place full of witchers.”

Stupid or brave or capable— Geralt doesn’t like the thought of it, no matter what adjective his mind tries to fill in.

“I want him kept away from Ciri,” he says in a low voice as they draw nearer to the others. “Something about him just feels off.”

“Yeah, alright,” Lambert says. “Wouldn’t have guessed that horses would be the thing to scare you, though.”

Geralt glares at Lambert— who jogs forward to speak with Vesemir as the older witcher appears in the yard with their swords and practice gear. Jaskier and Greg move out of the way, claiming they’ll need to find shade or else Jaskier’s skin will burn. This leaves only Ciri with Geralt as he finally approaches her. 

Usually, being with Ciri is hardly a problem— quite the opposite, in fact— but Geralt can’t help but frown when he sees her glaring up at him with a slight scowl.

“You were talking about Greg,” she says, refusing to phrase it as a question. “I saw you and Lambert looking over at him.”

“I was.” He gives a small nod, his eyebrows pinching together just a bit as Ciri’s scowl deepens. “Why? Has Jaskier forbidden us from speaking about his horse?”

“No, but I will,” Ciri says. “It’s obvious you don’t like him, Geralt.”

Geralt could try to deny it but what would be the point? To anger Ciri further? To hide his concerns from her? Nothing about that would keep her safe or turn her forgiveness upon him.

“I don’t know him,” he says, struggling to find the right words. “The last thing I want is to trust a stranger who may mean to hurt any of us.”

He thinks it’s a rather compelling argument but Ciri only shakes her head.

“You didn’t know me, either,” she says.

Geralt frowns. “That’s different.”

“You didn’t know Jaskier when you met him.”

“And I tried my best to make him leave,” Geralt says with a sigh. “Besides, Jaskier doesn’t pose much of a threat, especially when compared to whatever Greg is.”

“His friend, that’s what Greg is,” Ciri snaps. “And, from what he’s told me, he hasn’t had many of those.”

“Hm.” There’s a pinch of guilt in Geralt’s gut at those words. 

“I like Greg,” Ciri announces, lifting her chin. “And I won’t let you make him leave. Now, be nice or, at least, pretend to put up with him. No more moping because Jaskier has another friend here.”

“I’m not—” Geralt cuts himself off with another small grunt. It’d be childish to argue anyway. “Alright.”

“Good.” Ciri watches him a moment more before turning to wave down Lambert. “Can you two teach me how to spin my sword today? It always looks so neat when Eskel does it.”

And, just like that, the conversation’s done.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t want to be the kind of person to pout about all day only to spill his problems to the first person who asks what’s wrong. It’s a childish move he’s only seen Jaskier or Ciri attempt— both with astonishing success rates at gathering sympathy with it— but he knows he can’t complain to anyone about Greg during the day. The horse always seems to be around— sitting by Jaskier with his oversized head nodding along to whatever tune Jaskier’s playing now, brushing Lil Bleater with a comb Geralt nearly lost a hand over when he tried to use it on Roach last year, or even traipsing around outside as though there’s nothing wrong with a thirteen-eyed, six-armed horse hanging out with his family. Besides, Geralt tries to tell himself he’s overreacting. What does it matter to him that Jaskier’s friends with some monstrous thing that only barely causes a reaction on anyone’s medallion? Simply means he’s barely magic, right? No problem?

Yennefer’s the one to ask him after dinner, the others gone their separate ways to relax after a day of training and chores. Geralt lingers in the dining hall, eyeing the alcohol Vesemir keeps locked up for special occasions and trying to listen for any sounds of a horse breaking in. He’d watched Jaskier lead Greg to the stables earlier but, well, one can never be too safe.

“Alright, out with it,” Yennefer says, falling into the seat across from him at the table. “No one else will say it but you’ve been acting strangely today. Where’s your head at, Geralt?”

It’s the way she says his name, her teasing tone edging into something fond, that has him sighing and looking into the comfort of her violet eyes. They still rage like a storm but they’re calmer now, simply seeking an answer.

“Do you feel safe here?” He asks. Being straightforward hadn’t worked when Geralt had been with Eskel, and Lambert’s been no help after their last conversation with Greg. 

Yennefer’s eyebrow arches.

“Should I not?” She asks. Geralt huffs a weak laugh.

“No, but…” He trails off, thinking. “It’s Greg. The fucking horse.”

“Ah,” Yennefer says as if Geralt’s words actually make sense. It’s more reassuring than he’d like it to be. “Jaskier’s friend, correct? Yes, I did notice you’ve been staring at him quite a bit lately. Rather rudely, too, if I might add.”

“He has thirteen eyes, if anyone’s going to be scolded for staring, I don’t think it should be me,” Geralt says.

Yennefer’s smile is sharp. “I meant Jaskier. Or have you not noticed your own wandering gaze towards the bard?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. “He’s only ever with his horse and, as I said, it’s the horse that worries me.”

“Why?” Yennefer asks, her simper fading. 

“For one, I can’t hear his heartbeat,” Geralt says, admitting one of his main concerns. “In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything there. He makes noise but, other than that, he might as well be invisible. Fuck, Yen, I can’t even smell him and he’s a damned horse. The only reason I noticed him the first time we met was because my medallion reacted. And that's hardly ever a good sign.”

Yennefer’s eyebrows furrow together. “Didn’t you say Vesemir was looking into what he could be? Some creatures of magic have the ability to mask their presence as a survival tactic. It could be more proof that he’s prey than predator.”

“I’d believe that,” Geralt says, “if his actions suited that of prey.”

“So the horse did do something.” Yennefer leans forward, her eyes glimmering. “What, did he outrun Roach in a race?”

Geralt grits his teeth. “He snuck out of the stables the other night to sleep outside Jaskier’s room. It’s my understanding that Jaskier believes his pet sleeps with the other animals.”

“Jaskier’s his friend,” Yennefer says with a small tilt of her head. “And, as hard as I find it to believe that Jaskier could maintain a lifelong friendship, it’s true. Greg probably just wants to stay close to him. He's watching over him, in some sense.”

It’s so absurd Geralt could laugh. As if Jaskier needs protection here. He’s won over the other witchers with his songs and tales and jokes, and even Yennefer’s warmed up to him enough to share a grin every now and then. Ciri adores him and the two have continued their “secret” lute sessions. And, even if all this wasn’t true, Jaskier still has Geralt.

He still has Geralt to stay close, to watch over him. Shouldn’t that be enough?

He can almost feel his expression darken.

“What Greg wants hardly matters,” he says in a voice that’s nearly a growl. “If Jaskier wanted him to ‘stay close’, Greg wouldn’t be curled outside his window.”

“I won’t pretend to understand Jaskier’s mind,” Yennefer says. “But I know friendship when I see it. Those two care for each other in their own ways. Is that what’s frightening you?”

Fucking Yennefer with her direct questions and unfiltered thoughts, the way she sees the world and never hesitates to call out what she perceives. Geralt feels stripped raw in front of her, his muscles tense as though presented with a fight.

“You can’t tell me Jaskier actually cares for that thing.” This time, his voice does drop to a growl— as dangerous as the fists set upon the table between him and Yennefer. “You’ve seen the fine company he keeps and the pretty things he likes. But now he brings home this deformed being and calls it his friend, as though it doesn’t take one glance to tell that it doesn’t fit in this world, at all.”

The air itself changes as the words leave Geralt’s lips. Colder and sharper and shrinking around him as if to choke his voice.

When he looks at Yennefer, her eyes are just as harsh.

“And so deformities and ugliness are what define evil for you?” She asks, unblinking as her gentleness hardens into something distant and unafraid. 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Geralt says. “Besides, I’m a witcher. I know what it is to be judged unfairly.”

Yennefer’s face is a weapon and Geralt recoils at the sound of her scoff.

“But it’s what you said, and your own experiences don’t save you from passing the same judgment to others” she snaps. “This creature frightens because you can’t understand why Jaskier loves him so easily. So you find reasons to hate him, to call him a monster or cast him aside though he’s done nothing wrong. These things you call concerning are nothing more than signs of friendship. Though I suppose no one here should expect you to understand how to care for the people who love you.” Yennefer stands with a harsh sound, her chair rumbling against the floor as she shoves from the table. “Figure out your shit, Geralt, and stop blaming horses for the trouble your own emotions give you.”

When Yennefer leaves, she takes any remaining warmth with her, and Geralt is left alone in the cold.

* * *

Morning carries grey clouds across the sky, thick and brimming with the threat of snow. Geralt wakes early and stares out the window. They’ll have another few days of gentler weather before the real storms start. With the added guests Geralt’s brought this year, it may be best to escape to a nearby town for extra supplies, not that he’s that worried they’ll need it. It’s just that the skies are dimmed and he can’t bring himself to wonder when he’ll have the next chance to be away from the troubles his thoughts have fallen into.

He makes a stop in the kitchen first, hoping to find Vesemir and permission for the quick trip. But someone else is in there, swearing as they seem to fight with one of the larger mixing bowls.

“Why won’t you die?” Jaskier snaps, tossing the bowl back onto the table with a huff. 

“You’re crushing eggs with a wooden spoon,” Geralt says, causing Jaskier to jump as he reveals himself from the doorway. “I think they’re already dead.”

Jaskier, recovered from his fright, steps back with a huff and with his hands of his hips. Something that looks like dough sticks to his chemise. Geralt stares but doesn’t point it out.

“Yes, well, then,” Jaskier says, tossing his head to shift some of his bangs from his face. His hair’s a bit longer than Geralt remembers it being, hanging into his eyes rather than simply over his forehead. It’s a good look, but Geralt’s simply stuck on the fact that it’s different. “You’d think some dead eggs would have a bit more respect, then, wouldn’t you? Instead, they’re just sticking to the bowl and spoon and not doing what I want, at all.”

“Try adding something other than more eggs,” Geralt says, peering into the bowl only to pull back from the strong scent of egg that attacks him. “I don’t remember you as a morning person.”

“You remember correctly,” Jaskier says as he takes the bowl back and dumps it into another bowl that’s filled with some rather suspicious looking nuts. “But you all have your chores and I’ve felt bad not doing anything. Vesemir’s given me some tasks— cleaning up and organizing a few things here and there— but I just think he doesn’t want me to feel useless. Which, honestly, doesn’t help with the whole feeling useless thing.”

“You’re not useless,” Geralt says. If Jaskier’s eyes widen or if he glances at Geralt with no small amount of surprise, Geralt ignores it. “You, uh. You’ve been teaching Ciri music. It’s been good for her.”

Jaskier grins but it’s only half as warm as it could be. “Wars can’t be won with lutes and songs, Geralt. Even I know that.”

Jaskier turns back to whatever it is he’s making and Geralt finds himself at a loss for words. There’s almost something disenchanted in what Jaskier says, something that sounds distant and far-off. Something that’s not quite like the Jaskier Geralt knows.

“No, but it eases the troubles of it,” he says after a few moments of staring at Jaskier’s back, his frantic motions and shaking head. At Geralt’s words, though, Jaskier stills— not turning around, not moving. “I know that your songs each night have made my brothers cheerful— even if it is at my expense.”

“You mean in your honor.” Jaskier looks over his shoulder with a familiar mischievous smile. “If you’re going to compliment my music, don’t take it back by pretending the compliment isn’t really from you.”

“I wasn’t— Hm.” Geralt’s lips press into each other and Jaskier goes back to work. 

Silence tugs at the space between them, filling the air with the awkward stench of hesitation and reluctance. It’s as if they’re both waiting for something to say, for a new conversation to fall into their hands— or for the current one to be resolved.

Geralt looks away.

“I was looking for Vesemir,” he says. “I assume he’s with Ciri.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, but only after another strange second— a pause that Geralt doesn’t know how to fill. He turns, wiping his hands off on a towel as he nods towards a window. “But they’ve gone outside today. Seems they want to enjoy the outdoors while they can before we’re all stuck inside together. Vesemir said something about a storm coming on. You think it’ll be that bad?”

Geralt thinks of past winters at Kaer Morhen— huddled around a fire with his brothers, wrestling and spilling drinks whenever Lambert goes too far with one of his quips. Nights and days where the wind howls and ice pelts the walls outside, Vesemir listening to the hail and snow before telling the boys they’ll have to mend the damage before they leave. It’s cold, and there are times when it’s his turn to clean out the stables or walk the horses and he swears and makes rude remarks about freezing his balls off. It’s cold and it’s a pain but it’s never bad.

But, before he can answer, he thinks of how Jaskier once brought Greg into his room before. And he wonders if he’ll make a fuss about his best friend being left in the storm, if someone will suggest Greg come inside, if Geralt will wander the halls and wonder when he’ll bump into those thirteen eyes.

Is this why Jaskier asks? Is he wondering whether or not to sneak his friend in again?

Geralt doesn’t realize he’s taken so long to answer until Jaskier calls his name again.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, his head tipped endearingly to the side. Yennefer’s called him a lost puppy before; it’s not an entirely inaccurate description. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, perhaps a bit more gruffly than he means. “I don’t know what the storm will bring. Hopefully nothing newer than before.”

He doesn’t want to turn and leave Jaskier with that question still in his eyes, still etched around his lips with confusion and curiosity lingering in his scent. He doesn’t want to run away from another conversation or to turn his back on Jaskier again.

But, more than this, he doesn’t want any more reason to think of Greg and his role in Jaskier’s life. He doesn’t want to snap the way he did last night; he doesn’t want Jaskier to know he hates his oldest friend.

And, so, Geralt leaves. 

He can still feel Jaskier staring after him.

* * *

Ciri’s honey-coated laughter greets him first as he finds himself outside, the breeze slight but chilling as he frowns and follows the sound. It’s not anything he’d ever frown at before but there’s something beneath her joy, an added presence that stinks of sourness and mud.

When Geralt turns a corner to see Ciri perched upon Greg’s back, hands held tightly in his mane as the horse races in circles across the field, he feels his heart try to jump out of his mouth.

“Not only does the creature run faster than any horse I've seen,” Vesemir says, appearing at Geralt’s side, “it also has the intelligence to understand what I ask of it. Ciri should be an expert rider before the end of winter, so long as Greg is willing to help me teach her. They’re practicing her balance now.”

There are many things wrong with that statement. Geralt turns to Vesemir and does his best not to glare.

“I express concern about what this thing is,” he says, “and you decide to put my child on his back.”

Vesemir raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying you don’t trust my judgment?”

Ciri squeals from across the field as Greg takes a sharp turn. Geralt’s never heard of a witcher having a heart attack but he supposes it’d be just his luck for him to be the first.

“I’m saying you’ve not shared that judgment with me,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Yes, well,” Vesemir says, “I’m still figuring that out for myself.”

Geralt grimaces. “That’s not a reassuring answer.”

“It doesn’t need to be reassuring,” Vesemir says, turning back to face Ciri and Greg. “It’s simply honest.”

“Hm.” Geralt does his best not to snarl as Ciri leans close to Greg, her forehead pressed against him with her eyes shut tight in glee. “Can you at least tell me what he is?”

“I cannot.” 

Geralt turns back to Vesemir. “What?”

“Don’t worry yourself over this thing,” Vesemir says without looking at Geralt’s stunned expression. “If he was a danger to us, I’d have cast him out long ago. But, since he and the bard have arrived, they’ve both been nothing but kind. Helpful, even.”

Geralt thinks back to Jaskier’s attempt at making breakfast and snorts. 

“It’s true,” Vesemir continues. “I’ve no reason to mistrust them.”

“I never asked you to mistrust Jaskier,” Geralt mutters. “Only his pet.”

“Wouldn’t that be the same thing?” Vesemir asks, glancing at Geralt briefly. “If Jaskier’s as close to Greg as you say, then wouldn’t one’s evil imply the other’s? Or do you believe your bard to be a fool?”

“I believe him to be naive.” The tightness in Geralt’s voice passes for exasperation; his narrowed eyes, however, can only be frustration. “He befriended a witcher, for fuck’s sake. You imagine him to be someone with good sense?”

“Good sense? Perhaps not,” Vesemir says with a small laugh. “But good intent? Entirely.”

Geralt sighs, watching as Ciri and Greg slow to a trotting pace. 

“Jaskier sees good where there is none,” he says after a moment. “I do not want him hurt by his belief that everything is as kind as him.”

“You give him too little credit,” Vesemir says. “But, no matter. Time will come to prove one of us wrong eventually.”

It’s far from the conversation Geralt had hoped to have. He shakes his head and lets his arms fall to the side.

“I was hoping to gather more supplies in preparation for the storm,” he says, changing the subject. “It won’t take long. If I leave soon, I can be back before dark.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Vesemir says with a nod. “When you go, see if you can find some hooks or something similar. Apparently Jaskier’s pet has a hat he’d like to keep safe.”

Geralt snarls. 

“Monsters don’t wear hats,” he says.

Vesemir nearly grins.

“Then either you need to change your idea of monsters,” he says. “Or you need to give our guest a chance.”

Geralt simply stares, something hot and angry growing in his chest the more Ciri and Vesemir smile at this thing called Greg.

He’d love for it not to be a monster— to be good and trusted and as kind as Jaskier says.

But if it's not—

If he’s here to damage, to wound, to attack…

Then Geralt looks forward to being the one to protect the people he loves.

* * *

Though the nearest town is a few hours’ travel away for a witcher, Geralt doesn’t rush out the way he had expected he would earlier. It’s a small trip to escape from whatever insanity has taken hold of the others, but it’s not a trip he’d entirely like to make alone. It’ll be colder on the way back, and it’d be nice to have help to bring back whatever necessities he finds.

Asking Ciri or Vesemir to accompany him is out of the question, obviously. He doesn’t intend on listening to any more of Vesemir’s wise remarks or Ciri’s scolding chatter. Yennefer walks past him in the halls but she still carries that wounded air she put on after he’d inadvertently insulted her. He supposes an apology is in order but he’d rather wait until she doesn’t look ready to skin him.

That leaves Eskel or Jaskier, both of which are working together to mend a few chairs that had broken a few nights ago during a friendly after-dinner wrestling match between Geralt and Lambert. They’re deep in conversation, fondly laughing as Jaskier tries his best to prove he does know how to use these tools, thank you very much.

It’s a gentle scene and Geralt’s sure at least one of them can spare the time to join him. He takes a step forward.

He pauses, though, when Greg runs up to the two of them with some other tool in his hand, Lil Bleater trailing close behind. 

Geralt watches as Eskel thanks Greg for finding whatever it had been he needed— something that looks a bit like a mallet— and digs some sugar cubes out of his pocket to pass over. Geralt’s mouth twists into a scowl. The last thing that overexcited and overeager being needs is  _ sugar _ .

Jaskier seems to agree, nudging Eskel and asking how he’d like it if Jaskier started sharing snacks with his goat. Eskel drops the rest of the cubes onto the floor, letting Lil Bleater finish them off.

Seems he’ll be traveling alone. Geralt turns away.

“All dressed up and nowhere to go?”

Geralt groans when he’s faced with Lambert standing a few paces behind him.

“Fuck off,” he says with no real heat. “I told Vesemir I plan on getting supplies for the storm.”

“And Vesemir told me you might be looking for a friend to join you,” Lambert says, following him. “Considering you just turned your back on those two, I assume you were looking for me next? Well, lucky you, I’d love a chance to sneak away from here.”

“Hm.”

Lambert stares. “You _were_ coming to invite me, right?”

Geralt doesn’t look at him. “Sure.”

“Bastard.” Lambert laughs as he says it. “Come on, you know you want the company. And, unless you were going to dig up one of the worms in the fields to come with you, I’m the only one left.”

Geralt stops walking and turns to Lambert with a sigh.

“Fine,” he says. “I just need to prepare Roach and then we can go. No trouble, though, alright?” 

Lambert’s grin is not in the slightest bit reassuring and is entirely the reason Geralt hadn’t considered asking him.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “I’ll pack up and meet you by the gates.”

Lambert saunters back down from where they’d come, stopping to say hello to Eskel and Jaskier first. Geralt watches and tries to ease the suspicion in his gut.

Lambert may be a prick but at least he’s not a monster-horse. And at least he doesn’t seem to be friends with it. That’ll have to do, for now.

* * *

Lambert’s a fucking prick. No ifs, ands or buts about it.

“Lambert, what the fuck?” Geralt asks as he walks Roach to the front gates with him.

Lambert turns and grins as, in the distance, Jaskier finishes packing his own small bags onto Greg. 

“What?” Lambert asks, walking over to Geralt and out of hearing range for Jaskier and his horse. “Is there a problem?”

“You asshole,” Geralt says, leaning in towards Lambert. “You get one chance to be a decent person and you blow it up.”

“Aw, come on,” Lambert says. “I think I’m still being pretty nice.”

“Really?” Geralt asks, unamused. “Where?”

“I invited the monster-horse.”

“Yes,” Geralt grunts. “I see that.”

“Good!” Lambert pats Geralt on the shoulder. He’s very lucky his arm isn’t ripped off. “You did say you wanted me to keep an eye on him after all.”

Geralt shuts his eyes. Unfortunately, when he opens his eyes, Lambert and Greg are still there.

“I refuse to go anywhere with that thing,” Geralt says.

“That’s fine.” Lambert shrugs. Geralt stares until Lambert starts walking back towards Jaskier and Greg, calling over his shoulder as he does so. “Tell Vesemir we’ll be back by sundown. Have fun at home, brother.”

“Oh?” Jaskier asks, peering over with a small crease between his brows. “Is Geralt not coming?”

Geralt’s hands tighten into fists. It’d be easier to turn around or take Roach along a different path, but Greg’s still looking at Geralt with narrowed eyes. No one else seems to see it, but the horse’s shoulders have gone tense; he steps forward, head held high in some kind of threat.

“I’m coming,” Geralt says in a gruff voice. “Someone has to keep you fools from falling into trouble.”

“Trouble? Us?” Jaskier asks, hand held dramatically over his chest. “You cut straight to the heart, Geralt. And here I thought we were friends.”

“No, you’re just bait for whatever wild animals you’d find stumbling down the trail,” Geralt says, pulling himself onto Roach’s back and heading closer to the group. “Gods know you have a tendency to attract such things.”

“Talking poorly about yourself again?” Jaskier asks.

“Hm.”

Lambert watches with that awful grin of his, smug and far more arrogant than it deserves to be. Geralt shakes his head, checks on the bags tied alongside Roach.

And Jaskier climbs onto Greg’s back as though there’s nothing at all wrong in the world.

Geralt pretends Greg’s glare isn’t there, even as it follows him all the way down the Witcher’s Trail.

* * *

When Geralt says “I trust you” to anybody, he’s often exposing a small and quiet place within his being, beyond the reach of anyone other than family or those he loves. He’s opening up a piece of his life, of his mind and soul, and offering it as a way for a friendship to remain just that— a friendship, a companionship, proof that he doesn’t always have to be alone. It’s why, for years, only Eskel and Lambert could look into his eyes and know what he was feeling; it’s why, for years, he refused to call Jaskier his friend.

Because friendships come with trust but, for Geralt, the hurt and the betrayal cut their way into that bond. And it’s easier to withhold trust than to have it forcibly taken away.

No one can force his trust. 

But then there are people like Ciri and Jaskier and Yennefer, people who slip behind his ribcage anyway and find the beating heart beneath. The way Ciri ran into his arms and, at that moment, into every sutured together fiber of his being, weaving herself into his life and never once needing to ask if she can have his trust. Because Geralt gladly gave it to her the second he heard of Cintra’s trouble, the moment he realized his child-surprise needed him.

And Yennefer, with her lilac and gooseberries, her troublesome smile and the way it tears him apart. She fits against him like a storm against the sky, promising lightning and all its horrors but also swearing to be the clouds to shield him— that her thunder is for the earth alone, and that he need not fear her fury unless he tries to fight against it. And the storm doesn’t have to ask the sky for its trust; like nature, it’s already there by the time the first raindrops fall. Geralt’s past the point of caring that the love they shared was magic-made. Yennefer’s proven that, with or without this thing they called love, she belongs in his life.

Then there’s Jaskier. Jaskier with his songs and his lute and his starry-eyed smile. The way he catches like a tune in one’s head, on repeat with all the annoyance of a metaphor you can’t quite figure out. He’d asked for Geralt’s trust, once or twice, when things began, but those aren’t moments Geralt can really remember. For someone whose life is based around words, Jaskier’s soul is shown through his actions. Like the time he stayed awake with Geralt all night, despite his exhaustion and aching body, just to be sure Geralt meant it when he said a wound from a fight wasn’t that bad. Like that time bandits tried to steal Roach while Jaskier was left alone and Geralt had returned to find the bard trying to offer up his lute instead. Like the time Jaskier stitched together a cut. Like the time Jaskier stopped a performance early because he knew Geralt was tired. Like all the times he smiled whenever they found each other again, each smile just as bright as the first time they’d met— if not brighter.

Like the time Jaskier forgave him for cruel words without the slightest sense of hatred on his tongue.

Geralt doesn’t know when he realized he’d trust Jaskier with his life. He simply knows that Jaskier owns that trust just as surely as he owns the stories he’s made into songs, the praises and glory he’s brought like gifts to Geralt’s feet. 

Jaskier may have asked for his trust once or twice but, Geralt knows, Jaskier didn’t really ever need to ask at all.

And it’s this knowledge that makes his skepticism of Greg ache so much more. Because if Greg was simply a thing they found— stumbled across or saw in the woods— then Geralt could feel okay about hating him. He could huff and groan and toss out his cutting remarks without fear of truly wounding anyone who matters. And the people he trusts— his family, his friends— would hear him when he’d speak. They’d listen and they’d nod and, whether or not they agreed, they’d know that Geralt wouldn’t just simply say such a thing.

Because if Geralt says “I don’t trust you” then it can rarely ever be taken back. 

But he’d gone to each of his trusted friends and each one has turned their back on his words. Smiling at this creature Geralt knows as the enemy, laughing and treating him like one of their own.

Geralt cannot be swayed so easily. And he won’t give up on proving his instincts right.

So, it’s after they’ve returned from their trip— after the others have gone to bed, after Jaskier’s left a conversation to speak with Greg instead— that Geralt finds himself lighting the torches in the library and looking for the books Vesemir had pulled when he first promised to find out what Greg was.

The books, though shelved, are easy to spot. Vesemir’s scent still lingers upon them; one large tome, in particular, still has a ribbon sticking out from a chapter. It’s this book that Geralt opens in the middle of a table. It’s this book that he sits before with more determination than he’s felt in a while.

The first few pages of the given chapter don’t directly describe Greg. There’s no talk of horses or six-armed monsters. Rather, it speaks more on the other odd things Geralt noted: the muted scent, the dulled heartbeat, the attachment to just one human and nothing more.

_ Puzzling beings invoked from other planes,  _ a passage reads,  _ may often be found haunting our realm with the aid of he who called them. These other-worldly beings, summoned by dark magic, must be given an animal or human body to possess in order to exist among us. Without such a host, demons will take their own monstrous form, revealing their true horrid nature. _

Geralt pauses, his eyes stuck on one word on the page.

_ Demon _

Demon. Greg is a demon.

He’d like to say that it suddenly all makes sense— that there are flashes of Greg through his mind that line up with the limited knowledge he has of such terrible things. That every evil moment clicks into place, that his mistrust is finally validated.

But, instead, it’s Jaskier’s face that comes to mind.

Because demons must be summoned by magic. And, yes, it makes sense for Greg to be a demon— a wretched thing with nothing to possess, roaming the Continent with no way to hide what it is— but it doesn’t make sense for Jaskier to have been the one to summon it. 

Greg, though, belongs to Jaskier. It’s Jaskier’s orders that he follows, deaf to the words of others and unmoved by their requests. Oh, sure, he gives in but, Geralt recalls, only after turning to see the approval in Jaskier’s eyes first.

They’re bound, somehow, and Jaskier doesn’t seem to care. Is this why Jaskier fought so hard to be sure Greg wasn’t killed? Is this why all the others seem so charmed?

Part of Geralt wishes to slam the book shut, to take his sword and go into the stables and be done with it. Part of him wants to storm to Jaskier’s room and shake him awake, demand answers and beg for proof that Jaskier knew nothing of this. Part of him wants something to do, something to fix this, something that makes what comes next easy.

Part of him wants to put the book away and pretend he never read it, but trust is not so easily negotiated.

So Geralt sits at the table and he stares. And he waits for the sun to rise, silently hoping for answers to come with the morning.

* * *

Morning creeps calmly across the sky and Geralt sits ready to meet it. He doesn’t react as quickly as the blue-grey shades of day, simply standing and returning to his room— waiting for the sound of others to wake. 

Care is the one thing stronger than trust and the only proper reason to resist reaction. All night, Geralt had sat and fought with his instincts to rid himself of Greg’s presence; all night, he remembered every reason to wait and present his case.

When another hour has passed and others have begun to make their tired way to the dining hall for breakfast, Geralt joins. 

Through the windows he passes, he can see snow drifting gently to the ground— fat flakes melting against stone but sticking to grass and dirt. It’ll collect into a more troublesome amount before long, and he can already feel the chill of Kaer Morhen’s winds prodding at the walls and trying to break in. When he arrives a bit later than all the others he sees that they, too, have noted the cold. Eskel helps Vesemir to pass out bowls of porridge to those gathered around, their hands lingering on the warm dishes as they’re handed down the table. Yennefer’s kept a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and she grins as she ties a similar cloak around Ciri’s frame. Lambert complains loudly about a crack in his window; Vesemir simply reminds him it’s his own job to fix his own room.

And, further down the table, Jaskier sits by Greg and dries snowflakes from his mane. They’ve both got melting snow on their faces and Jaskier’s cheeks are pink. He must have just returned from gathering Greg from outside, and he takes care in checking on his friend to be sure he’s properly warmed.

Geralt’s suspicion— confirmed, now, and with more reason than ever— raises its head and beats against his skull. With each brush of Jaskier’s fingers through Greg’s fur, with every fond smile and whispered word, the feeling only grows. Geralt stands, not moving, and watches. He waits for the chance to reveal what he knows.

“Geralt?” It’s Yennefer, turned towards him now. “Is everything alright?”

Geralt’s been asked that far too many times since returning home. Today, he puts a stop to it.

But Jaskier looks over at Yennefer’s words and he jumps from his seat before Geralt can voice his findings.

“Geralt!” He exclaims, his chair nearly falling over in his haste to rush over. “Oh, good, I was hoping to see you. You disappeared last night— rather abruptly— but, I suppose we were all tired. Would you mind walking with me awhile?”

The instant doubt that rises at Jaskier’s request is an unwelcome guest in Geralt’s mind, but the familiar feeling of Jaskier’s eagerness is enough to temper it for now.

He nods, just once, but it’s enough to achieve a smile from Jaskier.

“Brilliant,” Jaskier says. “Come on, then. Let’s go somewhere no one can listen in on us. Eavesdropping pack of wolves, I swear.”

Jaskier begins a quick pace down the hall. Geralt half expects Greg to follow but, strangely, the horse— the demon— stays put.

Did Jaskier have to order him to do that? 

“I should probably say that I didn’t mean it as an insult when I called you all eavesdropping wolves,” Jaskier rambles as he leads him down the hall, aimlessly but with some sort of purpose. “It’s just that Ciri and I were planning a performance with her new lute skills— a fast learner that one, I’ll make a bard of her yet— and were discussing which songs to play, and Lambert had to ruin it by yelling— from across the field— that he’d gut me if I played that parody of  _ Toss A Coin  _ again. Which, well, he should be honored I’d made up a version with him in it. And, second, he completely spoiled the surprise for Ciri’s performance! I was going to tell him off but she beat me to it. And, gods, is her scolding powerful. Probably magical. Probably deadly, not that I’ve been on the receiving end yet. Have you? You must have been if you’ve been together so long. What was it about? Washing your hair? Taking care of yourself? Or—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts. At least with Jaskier’s rants, it’s harder to focus on the more disturbing thoughts Geralt’s had this morning. “We’re far enough they shouldn’t hear us. Now, what did you want to say?”

“Ah. Yes.” Jaskier turns and his cheeks darken with a shade of pink that’s not from cold. It takes Geralt aback; he’s seen the bard embarrassed before, but never in such a bashful way. As open as he is about his emotions, drawing such straightforward vulnerability from Jaskier is as easy as driving an angry mob away from a witcher’s door— nigh impossible without some force. “That.”

Geralt nearly laughs but something about Jaskier’s averted gaze pauses his judgment. “Is it…”

_ Is it about the demon you’ve kept hidden beneath our noses? Is it about the evil being you’ve somehow summoned? Do you have something to confess, to admit to? _

_ Are you going to tell me you aren’t who I think you are? _

Geralt’s stomach turns at the possibilities.

“It’s about Greg,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s world spins just a bit faster. Of course, it’s about the demon-horse. Of course, it’s always about his best friend. 

“Right,” Geralt says flatly. “Greg.”

“Yes, but, well, not entirely.” Jaskier flaps his hands indifferently through the air but he still won’t look Geralt in the eyes. He still can’t speak without sounding like he’s struggling with what he wants to say. “Look, I know you don’t like him.”

Geralt winces. Finally, the last person’s here to confront him for his mistrust. “I—”

“Don’t you dare try to deny it, Geralt of Rivia, I see the way you look at him.” At last, Jaskier looks into his eyes but not in the way Geralt might have hoped for. That fondness is still there but there’s a layer of exasperation and frustration woven into the blue. “I know the way you’ve ignored him and complained to others, doing everything but kicking him out yourself. It’s not hard to tell the difference when you’re so patient with others but can’t stand to look at him. But it’s also not hard to see why you’d do that.”

Jaskier takes a moment, takes a breath. Geralt doesn’t respond; he’s not certain he’s meant to.

“Greg’s strange and he’s new. And he’s here, in your home,” Jaskier continues. “I never wanted to put you in a position where you’d feel unsafe in the one sanctuary you have. I’m sorry about that. But I also couldn’t turn Greg away. Not after everything he’s done for me, everything we’ve done together. He’s, well, he’s important. But so are you.”

It’s not the speech Geralt had been anticipating, and he’s left fumbling for his place in it. 

Jaskier goes on with a faint smile. “My biggest worry, once, was that I’d have to choose between you or Greg. Gods, it’d keep me up and make me sick to my stomach. Because I knew I couldn’t do it. Honestly, how could I? My first friend as Julian and then my first friend as Jaskier? I’d rather just walk away from that question, to be honest. But then I realized I can’t do that because that’s forcing you two to fight over me like some princess in a story. And I really don’t do well as a princess, Geralt, my head’s not meant for crowns.”

“We wouldn’t—” Geralt’s nose wrinkles as he tries to figure out what Jaskier’s getting at. “Do you think we’ve been fighting over you?”

“Well, I think there’s a chance you both think there’s something to fight about,” Jaskier says, tipping his head to the side and looking at Geralt like he’s a child stuck on a simple equation. “You know I care about both of you, right? That, even if Greg’s here, you’re still my Witcher?”

Geralt’s heart definitely should not do a silly little twisty thing at those words, and yet… “Shut up.”

Jaskier laughs. 

“All this to say,” Jaskier says with a smile meant to melt hearts, “that I appreciate that I haven’t had to choose. That, despite both of you being ridiculously childish with this whole glaring at and ignoring one another thing, you’ve not forced me to get rid of him. As he’s not tried to make me leave you.” Jaskier pauses with a little sigh. “I know it’d be easy for you to hate him, Geralt. But you’ve let him come along anyway. I like to think it’s because you trust me. And that… that means a lot, really.”

Maybe this is the part where Geralt can gently bring up what he knows. If he says it softly, choosing words as delicately as Jaskier does, he can ask his questions without a fight. Tell Jaskier how worrying it is that he can’t hear Greg’s heart or read his scent, that he’s never encountered a creature like this and he doesn’t know what to do.

Maybe Jaskier would understand. Maybe they’d figure this out together.

But Jaskier’s eyes are so bright as he says this, and his hands are digging around for something he then holds out for Geralt.

“I, uh, I found this yesterday. When we went to town together.” It’s a small flower— yellow, shiny, familiar. Just beginning to bloom. “It’s, uh. Well, it sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but it’s a buttercup.”

Geralt blinks at Jaskier’s hand. “You’re giving me a flower that—”

“Yes, shut up, I’m giving you a flower that shares my name, what about it?” Jaskier’s redder than before. “Look, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want— toss it out into the snow, for all I care— but this flower has meant more to me than you know now. And I found it growing just outside your home and thought that, you know, as a poet, I can’t really believe in coincidences. So I picked it and thought it’d be something pleasing to give to my friend. Something to, uh, remind both of us that we’re still friends. No matter what.”

The best thing for a witcher to do is to find monsters and kill them. No mess, no emotion, no dramatics. 

Greg’s a monster.

Greg’s Jaskier’s friend.

And Jaskier is—

“Friends.” Geralt takes the flower gently, pinching the stem between his fingers. “Is this how humans prove such things?”

“It’s how I reassure myself of it,” Jaskier says with a grin. “Poet, remember?”

“I doubt you’d ever let me forget.” Still, Geralt’s careful with the flower as he tucks it away in his pocket. 

Care is the one thing stronger than trust, though both run along the same roads and intentions. Trust shows one who to care for; care shows one how to trust them.

Geralt cares for Jaskier and, so, he must learn to trust him. Even if he has a demon for a pet. Even if he has secrets and stories he’s yet to tell.

Jaskier links their arms as they walk back to the dining hall, sharing some warnings about poisonous flowers as though Geralt’s not already been taught such things. Perhaps, one day, Geralt will share his own warnings and fears, and why these fears are there, at all. The thought of losing those closest to him; the possibility of betrayal— both nightmares that have shaken him awake in the darkest of nights.

Yes, perhaps, one day, he’ll share such things. And, perhaps, one day, those he tells will understand.

But, today, a tranquillity settles over his nerves like magic. He still doesn’t trust Greg entirely— still doesn’t know why or how he’s here, what plans he has— but he does trust the way he makes Jaskier smile. He trusts him when Jaskier says it was Greg who taught him how to be Jaskier.

Little by little, Geralt can learn to trust Greg.

After all, destiny has shown him that there’s nothing wrong with another addition to this little family he’s found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For every other fic I've ever written, the average word count for a chapter is about 6k. So writing 13k in one go sounds amazing-- until I have to edit for hours and make sure it's actually decent enough to post. Even then, I apologize for any mistakes I may have left in. No betas, we die like Renfri and all that.
> 
> Ahh, my eyes hurt from staring at the screen for so long, though! I started editing much earlier in the day and haven't really stopped since. So, um. Please be kind? I'm doing my best here, haha.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so so so much to everyone who read and enjoyed the first chapter!! I'm absolutely delighted that so many people liked this little silly story I've shared. Greg is very near and dear to my heart after all this. I'm glad I can share my version with all of you :)
> 
> Leave a comment and your thoughts!! Thank you again for reading!!
> 
> P.S. If I have the time, Greg's story may not be over just yet. I hate to drag this out but, well, Greg and Geralt need a proper bonding experience, don't they? And what better experience to bond over than rescuing their bard together some day? Would anyone be interested in that? Stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite part about finding a title for this thing was that, while going through the original video, I found so many quotes from Joey himself that just perfectly summed up how I felt about writing this. These include, but are not limited to:
> 
> \- "Yeah, I'm that guy."  
> \- "So, uh, wish me luck."  
> \- "This could mean that I'm gonna be here for the next four hours."  
> \- "I did this to myself."
> 
> I could go on.
> 
> But! Instead! I want to know if anyone would be interested in more of this? Specifically, there could be a possible addition of Ciri, Yennefer and the other witchers meeting Greg (with a bonus of Geralt being absolutely flabbergasted at the fact that they all love him right away).
> 
> Either way, leave a comment! Thanks for reading this ridiculous thing, and I'll see you later! As always I'm on [Tumblr](https://hum-my-name.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/so_spaced__out_) and always happy to talk!


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